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THE    INGENIOUS    GENTLEMAN 

DON     QUIXOTE 

OF    LA    MANCHA 

BY 

MIGUEL  DE  CERVANTES  SAAVEDRA 


A   TRANSLATION,    WITH    INTRODUCTION   AND   NOTES 


BY 


JOHN    ORMSBY 

TRANSLATOR    OF    THE    "  POEM    OF    THE    CID  " 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES 
Vol.    I. 


NEW   YORK:    46  East   14TH   Street 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON:    100  Purchase   Street 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS, 


VOL.    I 


(From  Etcliiugs  by  Ad.  Lalau^e.) 


PAGE 

Portrait  of  Cervantes  (after  Pacheco)         .         .         .  Frontispiece 

Map xci 

Don  Quixote  Knighted  .........  18 

The  Windmills 46 

Defeat  of  the  Biscayan         ........  59 

With  the  Goatherds       ........         .65 

Don  Quixote  Wounded  .........  101 

The  Flocks  of  Sheep 11!) 

Mambrino's  Helmet          .........  148 

The  Ragged  Knight         .........  186 

Luscinda  Fainting 234 

Anselmo  and  Camilla      .         .         .         .         .  "      ,         .         .         .  286 

Don  Quixote  attacking  the  Wine-skins 301 

The  Reconciliation 314 

My  Lord  Judge  and  Don  Quixote 360 

Don  Quixote  hanging  from  the  Inn     ......  375 

Don  Quixote  in  the  Cart 400 

Vincent  de  la  Rosa         .........  431 


CONTENTS 


VOL.    I. 


INTRODUCTION: 

Prefatory 

Cervantes 

'■'■  Don  Quixote" 
THE   AUTHOR'S    PU1:FACE 
COMMENDATORY   VERSES 


PAGE 

V 

XV 

1 

Ixxv 
Ixxxii 


CHAPTER 

I.     Which  treats  of  the  character  anb  pursuits  of  the 

FAMOUS    GENTLEMAN    DoN    QuiXOTE    OF    La    MaNCHA  .  1 

II.     Which  treats  of   the  first  sally  the  ingenious  Don 

Quixote  made  from  home     ......  7 

III.  Wherein    is    related    the    droll    way    in  which    Don 

Quixote  had  himself  dubbed  a  knight       ...         13 

IV.  Of  what  happened  to  our  knight  when  he  left  the 

inn    ...........         19 

V.     In  which   the    narrative    of    our    knight's    mishap    is 

continued        .........         26 

VI.     Of  the  diverting  and   important  scrutiny  which  the 
Curate  and   the   Barber    made    in  the    library    of 
OUR  ingenious  gentleman      ......         30 

VII.     Of    the    second    sally    of    our    worthy    knight    Don 

Quixote  of  La  Mancha  ......         40 

Vlll.  Of  the  good  fortune  which  the  valiant  Don 
Quixote  had  in  the  terrible  and  undreamt-of 
adventure  of  the  windmills,  with  other  occur- 
rences worthy  to  be  fitly  recorded  ...  4(5 
IX.  In  which  is  concluded  and  finished  the  terrific 
battle    between    the     gallant    Biscayan    and    the 

valiant  Manchegan 54 

(i) 


11 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

x.     or    the    pleasant    discourse    that    passed   between 

Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  Sancho  Panza  .         .         59 

XI.       Of    WHAT     BEFELL     DoN     QuiXOTE     WITH     CERTAIN     GOAT- 
HERDS     ..........  64 

xil     or   what    a    goatherd    related   to    those  with  don 

Quixote         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         71 

QI.     In  which    is    ended  the    story    of   the    shepherdess 

Marcela,  with  other  incidents         ....         77 

IV.     Wherein  are  inserted  the  despairing  verses  of  the 

DEAD     shepherd,     TOGETHER     WITH     OTHER     INCIDENTS 

NOT    LOOKED    FOR  ........  86 

XV.     In    which    is    related    the    unfortunate    adventure 
THAT    Don    Quixote    fell   in    with    when  he    fell 

OUT  WITH  CERTAIN  HEARTLESS  YaNGUESANS     .     .     94 

XVI.     Of   what    happened  to  the   ingenious    gentleman  in 

THE    INN    WHICH    HE    TOOK    TO    BE    A    CASTLE  .  .  .  102 

XVII.     In  avhich  are  contained  the   innumerable  troubles 

WHICH      THE      brave      DoN      QuIXOTE      AND      HIS      GOOD 

SQUIRE  Sancho   Panza  endured  in   the  inn,  which 

TO    HIS    MISFORTUNE    HE    TOOK    TO    BE    A    CASTLE      .  .  109 

XVIII.       In    WHICH     IS     RELATED     THE     DISCOURSE     SaNCHO     PaNZA 
HELD     WITH     HIS     MASTER,     DON     QuiXOTE,      TOGETHER 
WITH    OTHER    ADVENTURES    WORTH    RELATING  .  .  117 

XIX.       Of    THE    SHREWD     DISCOURSE    WHICH    SaNCHO    HELD    AVITH 
HIS     MASTER,    AND     OF     THE     ADVENTURE     THAT     BEFELL 
HIM      WITH     A      DEAD      BODY,      TOGETHER     WITH      OTHER 
NOTABLE    OCCURRENCES  ......  127 

XX.       Of     the       UNEXAMPLED       AND      UNHEARD-OF       ADVENTURE 
WHICH    WAS    ACHIEVED    BY    THE  VALIANT    DoN    QuiXOTE 

OF    La    Mancha    with    less   peril    than   any    ever 

ACHIEVED    BY    ANY    FAMOUS    KNIGHT    IN    THE    WORLD         .  134 

XXI.     Which  treats  of  the  exalted   adventure   and  rich 

PRIZE  OF    MaMBRINO'S  HELMET,  TOGETHER  WITH    OTHER 
THINGS    THAT    HAPPENED    TO    OUR    INVINCIBLE    KNIGHT    .  14  7 

XXII.  Of  the  FREEDOM  DoN  Quixote  conferred  on  sev- 
eral UNFORTUNATES  AVHO  AGAINST  THEIR  WILL  WERE 
BEING    CARRIED    WHERE    THEY    HAD    NO    WISH    TO    GO        .  158 

XXIII.  Of     what     befell     Don     Quixote     in     the     Sierra 

MORENA,    which    WAS     ONE    OF     THE     RAREST     ADVENT- 
URES   RELATED    IN    THIS   VERACIOUS    HISTORY  .  .  168 

XXIV.  In  which  is  continued  the  adventure  of  the  Sierra 

MORENA 180 


CONTENTS. 


•  •  ■ 

m 


CHAPTER  I  PAOE 

XXV.  Which  treats  of  the  strange  things  that  hap- 
pened TO  the  stout  knight  of  La  Mancha  in 
the  Sierra  Morena,  and  of  his  imitation  of  the 

PENANCE    OF    BelTENEBROS  .  .  .  .  .  ]  8S 

XXVI.  In  which  are  continued  the  refinements  where- 
AviTH  Don  Quixote  played  the  part  ok  a  lover 

IN  THE  Sierra  Morena 20:5 

XXVIT.  Of  how  the  Curate  and  the  Barber  proceeded 
WITH  their  scheme  ;  together  avith  other  mat- 
ters worthy  of  record  in  this  great  history,  211 
XXVITI.  Which  treats  of  the  strange  and  delightful 
adventure  that  befell  the  curate  and  the 
Barber  in  the  same  Sierra  ....       22.") 

XXIX.     Which  treats  of  the  droll   device   and  method 

ADOPTED  TO  EXTRICATE  OUR  LOVE-STRICKEN  KNIGHT 
FROM  THE  SEVERE  PENANCE  HE  HAT)  IMPOSED  UPON 
HIMSELF      .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  2i'>(\ 

XXX.  Which  treats  of  the  address  displayed  by  the 
FAIR   Dorothea,   with  other    matters   pleasant 

AND    AMUSING      ........  247 

XXXI.  Of  the  delectable  discussion  between  Don  Qui- 
xote AND  SaNCHO  PaNZA,  HIS  SQUIRE,  TOGETHER 
WITH    OTHER    INCIDENTS       ......  2.")7 

XXXII.     Which  treats  of  what  befell  all  Don  Quixote's 

PARTY    AT    THE    INN     ....... 

XXXIII.  In   which    is    related    the    novel    of    "The    Ill- 

advised  Curiosity  "...... 

XXXIV.  In  which  is  continued  the  novel    of    "The    Ill- 

advised  Curiosity  "...... 

XXXV.     Which  treats  of  the  heroic  and  prodigioits  bat- 
tle   Don   Quixote    had    avith    certain    skins    of 

RED    WINE,    and    BRINGS    THE    N(JVEL    OF    "  TlIE    IlL- 

advised   Curiosity  "   to    a    close 
XXXVI.     Which   treats   of   more    curious    incidents   that 
occurred  at  the  inn      ...... 

XXXVII.     In  which  is  continued   the   story  of  the  famous 
Princess  Micomicona,  with  other  droll  advent- 
ures .........       31f! 

XXXVIII.     Which    treats    of    the    curious    discourse    Don 

Quixote  delivered  on  arms  and  letters  .  .       ;^26 


200 
278 

287 

800 
807 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEB  '  PAGJS 

XXXIX.     Wherein    the  captive    relates  his    life  and  ad- 
ventures ........       330 

XL.     In  which  the  story  of  the  captive  is  continued,       336 
XLI.     In  which  the  captive  still  continues  his  advent- 
ures        .........       34.^ 

XLII.     Which   treats  op    what    further   took  place   in 

THE  INN,  and  of  .SEVERAL  OTHER  THINGS  AVORTH 
KNOWING  ........  Soit 

XLIII.     Wherein  is  related  the    pleasant    story  of  the 

MULETEER,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER  STRANGE  THINGS 

that    came    TO    PASS    IN    THE    INN       ....  366 

XLIV.     In  which  are  continued  the  unheard-of  advent- 
ures   OF   THE    INN      .......         376 

XLV.     In  which  the  doubtful  question   of   Mambrino's 

HELMET  AND  THE  PACK-SADDLE  IS  FINALLY  SETTLED, 
WITH  OTHER  ADVENTURES  THAT  OCCURRED  IN  TRUTH 
AND    EARNEST    ........  384 

XLVI.       Of    THE     END     OF    THE     NOTABLE    ADVENTURE     OF    THE 

officers  of  the  holy  brotherhood  ;  and  of  the 
great   ferocity   of    our   avorthy    knight,    don 
Quixote  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .391 

XLVII.  Of  the  strange  manner  in  which  Don  Quixote  of 
La  Mancha  was  carried  away  enchanted,  to- 
gether  WITH    other   remarkable    INCIDENTS  .         399 

XL VIII.     In  WHICH  the  Canon  pursues  the  subject  of  the 

books    of  chivalry,  WITH  OTHER  MATTERS  WORTHY 

OF    HIS    WIT  ........  408 

XLIX.     Which     treats     of     the     shrewd    conversation 
WHICH    Sancho    Panza   held   with    his    master, 
Don   Quixote  .         .         .         .         .         .         .       41(! 

L.     Of    the    shrewd    controversy    which  Don    Qui- 
xote   AND     THE     Canon    held,    together    with 
other   incidents     .......       423 

LI.     Which     deals     with    what    the    goatherd   told 

THOSE  who    were    CARRYING    OFF    DoN    QuiXOTE        .  429 

LII.     Of  the  quarrel  that  Don  Quixote  had  with  the 

GOATHERD,  TOGETHER  AVITH  THE  RARE  ADA'ENTURE 
OF  THE  PENITENTS,  AVHICH  AVITH  AN  EXPENDITURE 
OF    SWEAT    HE    BROUGHT    TO    A    HAPPY  CONCLUSION     .  433 


INTRODUCTION. 


PREFATORY. 

It  was  with  considerable  reluctance  that  I  abandoned  in 
favor  of  the  present  undertaking  what  had  long  been  a 
favorite  project,  that  of  a  new  edition  of  Shelton's  "  Don  Qui- 
xote," which  has  now  become  a  somewhat  scarce  book.  There 
are  some  —  and  I  confess  myself  to  be  one  —  for  whom  Shel- 
ton's  racy  old  version,  with  all  its  defects,  has  a  charm  that 
no  modern  translation,  however  skilful  or  correct,  could  possess. 
Shelton  had  the  inestimable  advantage  of  belonging  to  the 
same  generation  as  Cervantes  ;  '■'■  Don  Quixote  "  had  to  him  a 
vitality  that  only  a  contemporary  could  feel ;  it  cost  him  no 
dramatic  effort  to  see  things  as  Cervantes  saw  them ;  there  is 
no  anachronism  in  his  language ;  he  put  the  Spanish  of  Cer- 
vantes into  the  English  of  Shakespeare.  Shakespeare  himself 
most  likely  knew  the  book ;  he  may  have  carried  it  home  with 
him  in  his  saddle-bags  to  Stratford  on  one  of  his  last  journeys, 
and  under  the  mulberry  tree  at  New  Place  joined  hands  with 
a  kindred  genius  in  its  pages. 

But  it  was  soon  made  plain  to  me  that  to  hope  for  even 
a  moderate  popularity  for  Shelton  was  vain.  His  fine  old 
crusted  English  would,  no  doubt,  be  relished  by  a  minority, 
but  it  would  be  only  by  a  minority.  His  version  has  strong 
claims  on  sentimental  grounds,  but  on  sentimental  grounds 
only.  His  warmest  admirers  must  admit  that  he  is  not  a  sat- 
isfactory representative  of  Cervantes.  His  translation  of  the 
First  Part  was  very  hastily  made  —  in  forty  days  he  says  in 
his  dedication  —  and,  as  his  marginal  notes  show,  never  re- 
vised by  him.  It  has  all  the  freshness  and  vigor,  but  also  a 
full  measure  of  the  faults,  of  a  hasty  production.  It  is  often 
very   literal  —  barbarously   literal  frequently  —  but   just   as 

(V) 


vi  INTRODUCTION. 

often  very  loose.  He  had  evidently  a  good  colloquial  knowl- 
edge of  Spanish,  but  apparently  not  much  more.  It  never 
seems  to  occur  to  him  that  the  same  translation  of  a  word  will 
not  suit  in  every  case.  With  him  ''  discreto  "  —  a  chameleon 
of  a  word  in  its  way  of  taking  various  meanings  according  to 
circumstances  —  is  always  "  discreet,"  "  admirar  "  is  always 
"  admire,"  "  sucesos  "  always  "  successes  "  (which  it  seldom 
means), '' honesto  "  always  <>  honest"  (which  it  never  means), 
''  suspense  "  always  "■  suspended ;  "  '•  desmayarse,"  to  swoon  or 
faint,  is  always  '*  to  dismay  "  (one  lady  is  a  "  mutable  and  dis- 
mayed traitress,"  when  "fickle  and  fainting"  is  meant,  and 
another  "  made  shew  of  dismaying  "  when  she  "  seemed  ready 
to  faint ") ;  "  trance,"  a  crisis  or  emergency,  is  always  simply 
"  trance  ;  "  "  disparates  "  always  "  fopperies,"  which,  however, 
if  not  a  translation,  is  an  illustration  of  the  meaning,  for  it  is 
indeed  nonsense.  These  are  merely  a  few  samples  taken  at 
hap-hazard,  but  they  will  suffice  to  show  how  Shelton  trans- 
lated, and  why  his  "  Don  Quixote,"  veritable  treasure  as  it  is 
to  tlie  Cervantist  and  to  the  lover  of  old  books  and  old  English, 
cannot  be  accepted  as  an  adequate  translation. 

It  is  often  said  that  we  have  no  satisfactory  translation  of 
"  Don  Quixote."  To  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  original, 
it  savors  of  truism  or  platitude  to  say  so,  for  in  truth  there 
can  be  no  thoroughly  satisfactory  translation  of  "  Don  Quixote  " 
into  English  or  any  other  language.  It  is  not  that  the  Spanish 
idioms  are  so  utterly  unmanageable,  or  that  the  untranslatable 
words,  numerous  enough  no  doubt,  are  so  superabundant,  but 
rather  that  the  sententious  terseness  to  which  the  humor  of 
the  book  oAves  its  flavor  is  peculiar  to  Spanish,  and  can  at  best 
be  only  distantly  imitated  in  any  other  tongue.  The  dilemma 
of  the  translator  frequently  is  this,  that  terseness  is  essential 
to  the  humor  of  the  phrase  or  passage,  but  if  he  translates  he 
will  not  be  terse,  and  if  he  would  be  terse  he  must  paraphrase. 

The  history  of  our  English  translations  of  "  Don  Quixote  " 
is  instructive.  Shelton's,  the  first  in  any  language,  was  made, 
apparently,  about  1608,  but  not  published  till  1612.  This  of 
course  was  only  the  First  Part.  It  has  been  asserted  that 
the  Second,  published  in  1620,  is  not  the  work  of  Shelton, 
but  there  is  nothing  to  support  the  assertion  save  the  fact  that 
it  has  less  spirit,  less  of  what  we  generally  understand  by  "  go," 
about  it  than  the  first,  which  would  be  only  natural  if  the 
first  were  the  work  of  a  young  man  writing  currente  calamo, 


PREFA  TOR  Y.  vii 

and  tlie  second  that  of  a  middle-aged  man  writing  for  a  book- 
seller. On  the  other  hand,  it  is  closer  and  more  literal,  the 
style  is  the  same,  the  very  same  translations,  or  mistransla- 
tions, of  "  suceso,"  "  trance,"  '^  desmayarse,"  etc.,  occur  in  it, 
and  it  is  extremely  unlikely  that  a  new  translator  would,  by 
suppressing  his  name,  have  allowed  Shelton  to  carry  off  the 
credit. 

In  1687  John  Phillips,  Milton's  nephew,  produced  a  "  Don 
Quixote  "  "  made  English,"  he  says,  "  according  to  the  humour 
of  our  modern  language."  The  origin  of  this  attempt  is  plain 
enough.  In  1656  that  indecorous  Oxford  Don,  Edmond  Gay- 
ton,  had  produced  his  "  Festivous  Notes  on  Don  Quixote,"  a 
string  of  jests,  more  or  less  dirty,  on  the  incidents  in  the  story, 
which  seems  to  have  been  much  relished;  and  in  1667  Sir 
Roger  I'Estrange  had  published  his  version  of  Quevedo's 
"  Visions  "  from  the  French  of  La  Geneste,  a  book  which  the 
lively  though  decidedly  coarse  humor,  cockney  jokes  and  Lon- 
don slang,  wherewith  he  liberally  seasoned  it,  made  a  pro- 
digious favorite  with  the  Restoration  public.  It  struck  Phillips 
that,  ^s  Sheltori  was  now  rather  antiquated,  a  ''  Don  Quixote  " 
treated  in  the  same  way  might  prove  equally  successful.  He 
imitated  L'Estrange  as  well  as  he  could,  but  L'Estrange  was  a 
clever  penman  and  a  humorist  after  his  fashion,  while  Phillips 
was  only  a  dull  buffoon.  His  "  Quixote  "  is  not  so  much  a 
translation  as  a  travesty,  and  a  travesty  that  for  coarseness, 
vulgarity,  and  buffoonery  is  almost  unexampled  even  in  the 
literature  of  that  day. 

Ned  Ward's  "  Life  and  Notable  Adventures  of  Don  Quixote, 
merrily  translated  into  Hudibrastic  Verse  "  (1700),  can  scarcely 
be  reckoned  a  translation,  but  it  serves  to  show  the  light  in 
which  <'  Don  Quixote  "  'was  regarded   at  the  time. 

A  further  illustration  may  be  found  in  the  version  published 
in  1712  by  Peter  Motteux,  who  had  then  recently  combined 
tea-dealing  with  literature.  It  is  described  as  '^  translated  from 
the  original  by  several  hands,"  but  if  so  all  Spanish  flavor  has 
entirely  evaporated  under  the  manipulation  of  the  several 
hands.  The  flavor  that  it  has,  on  the  other  hand,  is  dis- 
tinctly Franco-cockney.  Any  one  Avho  compares  it  carefully 
with  the  original  will  have  little  doubt  that  it  is  a  concoction 
from  Shelton  and  the  French  of  Filleau  de  Saint  Martin,  eked 
out  by  borrowings  from  Phillips,  whose  mode  of  treatment  it 
adopts.     It  is,  to  be  sure,  more  decent  and  decorous,  but  it 


t) 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

treats  "  Don  Quixote  "  in  the  same  fashion  as  a  comic  book 
that  cannot  be  made  too  comic. 

To  attempt  to  improve  the  hnmor  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  by  an 
infusion  of  cockney  flippancy  and  facetiovisness,  as  Motteux's 
operators  did,  is  not  merely  an  impertinence  like  larding  a 
sirloin  of  prize  beef,  but  an  absolute  falsification  of  the  spirit 
of  the  book,  and  it  is  a  proof  of  tlie  uncritical  way  in  which 
'■'  Don  Quixote  "  is  generally  read  that  this  worse  than  worth- 
less translation  —  worthless  as  failing  to  represent,  worse  than 
worthless  as  misrepresenting  —  should  have  been  favored  as 
it  has  been.  That  it  should  have  been  popular  in  its  own  day, 
or  that  a  critic  who  understood  the  original  so  little  as  Alex- 
ander Eraser  Tytler  should  think  it  "  by  far  the  best,"  is  no 
great  wonder.  But  that  so  admirable  a  scholar  as  Ticknor 
should  have  given  it  even  the  lukewarm  approval  he  bestows 
upon  it,  and  that  it  should  have  been  selected  for  reproduction 
in  luxurious  shapes  three  or  four  times  within  these  last  three 
or  four  years,  is  somewhat  surprising.  Ford,  whose  keen  sense 
of  humor,  and  intimate  knowledge  of  Spain  and  the  Spanish 
character,  make  him  a  more  trustworthy  critic  on  this*  par- 
ticular question  than  even  the  illustrious  American,  calls  it  of 
all  English  translations  "  the  very  worst."  This  is  of  course 
too  strong,  for  it  is  not  and  could  not  be  worse  than  Phillips's, 
but  the  vast  majority  of  those  who  can  relish  ''  Don  Quixote  " 
in  the  original  will  confirm  the  judgment  substantially. 

It  had  the  effect,  however,  of  bringing  out  a  translation 
undertaken  and  executed  in  a  very  different  spirit,  that  of 
Charles  Jervas,  the  portrait  painter,  and  friend  of  Pope,  Swift, 
Arbuthnot,  and  Gay.  Jervas  has  been  allowed  little  credit 
for  his  work,  indeed  it  maybe  said  none,  for  it  is  known  to  the 
world  in  general  as  Jarvis's.  It  was  not  published  until  after 
his  death,  and  the  printers  gave  the  name  according  to  the 
current  pronunciation  of  the  day.  It  has  been  the  most  freely 
used  and  the  most  freely  abused  of  all  the  translations.  It 
has  seen  far  more  editions  than  any  other,  it  is  admitted  on 
all  hands  to  be  by  far  the  most  faithful,  and  yet  nobody  seems 
to  have  a  good  word  to  say  for  it  or  for  its  author.  Jervas  no 
doubt  prejudiced  readers  against  himself  in  his  preface,  where 
among  many  true  words  about  Shelton,  Stevens,  and  Motteux, 
he  rashly  and  unjustly  charges  Shelton  with  having  translated 
not  from  the  Spanish,  but  from  the  Italian  version  of  Fran- 
ciosini,  which  did  not  appear  until  ten  years  after  Shelton' s 


PREFA  TOR  Y.  ix 

first  volume.  A  suspicion  of  incompetence,  too,  seems  to 
have  attached  to  him  because  he  was  by  profession  a  painter 
and  a  mediocre  one  (though  he  has  given  us  the  best  portrait 
we  have  of  Swift),  and  this  may  have  been  strengthened  by 
Pope's  remark  tliat  he  ''  translated  '  Don  Quixote '  without 
understanding  Spanish."  He  has  been  also  charged  with 
borrowing  from  Shelton,  whom  he  disparaged.  It  is  true  that 
in  a  few  difficult  or  obscure  passages  he  has  followed  Shelton, 
and  gone  astray  with  him  ;  but  for  one  case  of  this  sort,  there 
are  fifty  where  he  is  right  and  Shelton  wrong.  As  for  Pope's 
dictum,  any  one  who  examines  Jervas's  version  carefully,  side 
by  side  with  the  original,  will  see  that  he  was  a  sound  Spanish 
scholar,  incomparably  a  better  one  than  Shelton,  except  perhaps 
in  mere  collo(}uial  Spanish.  Unlike  Shelton,  and  indeed  most 
translators,  who  are  generally  satisfied  with  the  first  dictionary 
meaning  or  have  a  stereotyped  translation  for  every  word 
under  all  circumstances,  he  was  alive  to  delicate  distinctions 
of  meaning,  always  an  important  matter  in  Spanish,  l)iit  es- 
pecially in  the  Spanish  of  Cervantes,  and  his  notes  show  that 
he  was  a  diligent  student  of  the  great  Spanish  Academy  Dic- 
tionary, at  least  its  earlier  volumes ;  for  he  died  in  17.' 59,  the 
year  in  which  the  last  was  printed.  His  notes  show,  besides, 
that  he  was  a  man  of  very  considerable  reading,  particularly 
in  the  department  of  chivalry  romance,  and  they  in  many 
instances  anticipate  Bowie,  who  generally  has  the  credit  of  be- 
ing the  first  "  Quixote  "  annotator  and  commentator.  He  was, 
in  fact,  an  honest,  faithful,  and  painstaking  translator,  and  he 
has  left  a  version  which,  whatever  its  shortcomings  may  be, 
is  singularly  free  from  errors  and  mistranslations. 

The  charge  against  it  is  that  it  is  stiff,  dry  —  "  wooden  "  in 
a  word,  —  and  no  one  can  deny  that  there  is  foundation  for  it. 
But  it  may  be  pleaded  for  Jervas  that  a  good  deal  of  this 
rigidity  is  due  to  his  abhorrence  of  the  light,  flippant,  jocose 
style  of  his  predecessor.  He  was  one  of  the  few,  very  few, 
translators  that  have  shown  any  apprehension  of  the  unsmiling 
gravity  which  is  the  essence  of  Quixotic  humor ;  it  seemed  to 
him  a  crime  to  bring  Cervantes  forward  smirking  and  grinning 
at  his  own  good  things,  and  to  this  may  be  attributed  in  a  great 
measure  the  ascetic  abstinence  from  every  thing  savoring  of 
liveliness  which  is  the  characteristic  of  his  translation.  Could 
he  have  caught  but  ever  so  little  of  Swift's  or  Arbnthnot's 
style,  he  might  have  hit  upon  a  via  media  that  would  have 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

made  his  version  as  readable  as  it  is  faithful,  or  at  any  rate 
saved  him  from  the  reproach  of  having  marred  some  of  the 
best  scenes  in  "  Don  Qnixote."  In  most  modern  editions,  it 
should  be  observed,  his  style  has  been  smoothed  and  smartened, 
but  without  any  reference  to  the  original  Spanish,  so  that  if  he 
has  been  made  to  read  more  agreeably  he  has  also  been  robbed 
of  his  chief  merit  of  fidelity. 

Smollett's  version,  published  in  1755,  may  be  almost  counted 
as  one  of  these.  At  any  rate  it  is  plain  that  in  its  construction 
Jervas's  translation  was  very  freely  drawn  upon,  and  very  little 
or  probably  no  heed  given  to  the  original  Spanish. 

The  later  translations  may  be  dismissed  in  a  few  words. 
George  Kelly's,  which  appeared  in  1769,  ''  printed  for  the 
Translator,"  was  an  impudent  imposture,  being  nothing  more 
than  Motteux's  version  with  a  few  of  the  words,  here  and 
there,  artfully  transposed ;  Charles  Wilmot's  (1774),  was  only 
an  abridgment  like  Florian's,  but  not  so  skilfully  executed; 
and  the  version  published  by  Miss  Smirke  in  1818,  to  accom- 
pany her  brother's  plates,  was  merely  a  patchwork  production 
made  out  of  former  translations.  On  the  latest,  Mr.  A.  J. 
Duffield's,  it  would  be  in  every  sense  of  the  word  impertinent 
in  me  to  offer  an  opinion  here.  I  had  not  even  seen  it  when 
tlie  present  undertaking  was  proposed  to  me,  and  since  then  I 
may  say  vidl  taMum,  having  for  obvious  reasons  resisted  the 
temptation  which  Mr.  Duffield's  reputation  and  comely  volumes 
hold  out  to  every  lover  of  Cervantes. 

From  the  foregoing  history  of  our  translations  of  "Don 
Quixote,"  it  will  be  seen  that  there  are  a  good  many  people, 
who,  provided  they  get  the  mere  narrative  with  its  full  com- 
plement of  facts,  incidents,  and  adventures  served  up  to  them 
in  a  form  that  amuses  them,  care  very  little  whether  that  form 
is  the  one  in  which  Cervantes  originally  shaped  his  ideas.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  clear  that  there  are  many  who  desire  to 
have  not  merely  the  story  he  tells,  but  the  story  as  he  tells  it, 
so  far  at  least  as  differences  of  idiom  and  circumstances  permit, 
and  who  will  give  a  preference  to  the  conscientious  translator, 
even  though  he  may  hav.e  acquitted  himself  somewhat  awk- 
wardly. It  is  not  very  likely  that  readers  of  the  first  class  are 
less  numerous  now  than  they  used  to  be,  bu.t  it  is  no  extrava- 
gant optimism  to  assume  that  there  are  many  more  of  the  other 
way  of  thinking  than  there  were  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 

But  after  all  there  is  no  real  antagonism  between  the  two 


PREFATORY.  xi 

classes ;  there  is  no  reason  why  what  pleases  the  one  shoi;kl 
not  please  the  other,  or  why  a  translator  who  makes  it  his  aim 
to  treat  "  Don  Quixote  "  with  the  respect  due  to  a  great  classic, 
should  not  be  as  acceptable  even  to  the  careless  reader  as  the 
one  who  treats  it  as  a  famous  old  jest-book.  It  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  caviare  to  the  general,  or,  if  it  is,  the  fault  rests  with 
him  who  makes  it  so.  The  method  by  which  Cervantes  won 
the  ear  of  the  Spanish  people  ought,  mutatis  mutandis,  to  be 
equally  effective  with  the  great  majority  of  English  readers. 
At  any  rate,  even  if  there  are  readers  to  whom  it  is  a  matter 
of  indifference,  fidelity  to  the  method  is  as  much  a  part  of  the 
translator's  duty  as  fidelity  to  the  matter.  If  he  can  please  all 
parties,  so  much  the  better  ;  but  his  first  duty  is  to  those  who 
look  to  him  for  as  faithful  a  representation  of  his  author  as  it 
is  in  his  power  to  give  them,  faithful  to  the  letter  so  long  as 
fidelity  is  practicable,  faithful  to  the  spirit  so  far  as  he  can 
make  it. 

With  regard  to  fidelity  to  the  letter,  there  is  of  course  no 
hard  and  fast  rule  to  be  observed ;  a  translator  is  bound  to  be 
literal  as  long  as  he  can,  but  persistence  in  absolute  literality, 
Avhen  it  fails  to  convey  the  author's  idea  in  the  shape  the 
author  intended,  is  as  great  an  offence  against  fidelity  as 
the  loosest  paraphrase.  As  to  fidelity  to  the  spirit,  perhaps 
the  only  rule  is  for  the  translator  to  sink  his  own  individu- 
ality altogether,  and  content  himself  with  reflecting  his 
author  truthfully.  It  is  disregard  of  this  rule  that  makes 
French  translations,  admirable  as  they  generally  are  in  all 
that  belongs  to  literary  workmanship,  so  often  unsatisfactory. 
French  translators,  for  the  most  part,  seem  to  consider  them- 
selves charged  with  the  duty  of  introducing  their  author  to 
polite  society,  and  to  feel  themselves  in  a  measure  responsible 
for  his  behavior.  There  is  always  in  their  versions  a  certain 
air  of  "  Bear  your  body  more  seeming,  Audrey."  Viardot,  for 
example,  has  produced  a  "  Don  Quixote  "  that  is  delightfully 
smooth,  easy  reading ;  but  the  Castilian  character  has  been 
smoothed  away.  He  has  forced  Cervantes  into  a  French 
mould,  instead  of  moulding  his  French  to  the  features  of 
Cervantes.  It  is  hardly  fair,  perhaps,  to  expect  a  Frenchman 
to  efface  himself  and  consent  to  play  second  fiddle  under  any 
circumstances ;  but  to  look  for  a  translation  true  to  the  spirit 
from  a  translator  who  holds  himself  free  to  improve  his  author 
is,  as  a  Spaniard  would  say,  "  to  ask  pears  from  the  elm  tree." 


xii  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

My  purpose  here,  however,  is  not  to  dogmatize  on  the  rules 
of  translation,  but  to  indicate  those  I  have  followed,  or  at 
least  tried  to  the  best  of  my  ability  to  follow,  in  the  present 
instance.  One  which,  it  seems  to  me,  cannot  be  too  rigidly 
followed  in  translating  "  Don  Quixote,"  is  to  avoid  everything 
that  savors  of  affectation.  The  book  itself  is,  indeed,  in  one 
sense  a  protest  against  it,  and  no  man  abhorred  it  more  than 
Cervantes.  "  Toda  afectacion  es  mala,"  is  one  of  his  favorite 
proverbs.  For  this  reason,  I  think,  any  temptation  to  use 
antiquated  or  obsolete  language  should  be  resisted.  It  is 
after  all  an  affectation,  and  one  for  which  there  is  no  warrant 
or  excuse.  Spanish  has  probably  undergone  less  change  since 
the  seventeenth  century  tlian  any  language  in  Europe,  and  by 
far  the  greater  and  certainly  the  best  part  of  "  Don  Quixote  " 
differs  but  little  in  language  from  the  colloquial  Spanish  of 
the  present  day.  That  wonderful  supper-table  conversation 
on  books  of  chivalry  in  Chap,  xxxii.  Part  I.  is  just  such  a  one 
as  might  be  heard  now  in  any  venta  in  Spain.  Except  in  the 
tales  and  Don  Quixote's  speeches,  the  translator  who  uses  the 
simplest  and  plainest  every -day  language  will  almost  always 
be  the  one  who  approaches  nearest  to  the  original. 

Seeing  that  the  story  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  and  all  its  char- 
acters and  incidents  have  now  been  for  more  than  two  centu- 
ries and  a  half  familiar  as  household  words  in  English  mouths, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  old  familiar  names  and  phrases  should 
not  be  changed  without  good  reason.  I  am  by  no  means  sure 
that  I  have  done  rightly  in  dropping  Shelton's  barbarous  title 
of  "  Curious  Impertinent "  by  which  the  novel  in  the  First 
Part  has  been  so  long  known.  It  is  not  a  translation,  and  it  is 
not  English,  but  it  has  so  long  passed  current  as  the  title  of 
the  story  that  its  original  absurdity  has  been,  so  to  speak, 
effaced  by  time  and  use.  "  Ingenious "  is,  no  doubt,  not  an 
exact  translation  of  "  Ingenioso ;  "  but  even  if  an  exact  one 
could  be  found,  I  doubt  if  any  end  would  be  served  by  sub- 
stituting it.  No  one  is  likely  to  attach  the  idea  of  ingenuity 
to  Don  Quixote.^     "  Dapple  "  is  not  the  correct  translation  of 

'  "  Ingenio  "  was  used  in  Cervantes'  time  in  very  nearly  the  same  way 
as  "  wit "  with  us  at  about  the  same  period,  for  the  imaginative  or  inven- 
tive faculty.  Collections  of  plays  were  always  described  jis  being  by 
"  los  mejores  ingenios"—  "the  best  wits."  By  "  Ingenioso"  he  means 
one  in  whom  the  imagination  is  the  dominant  faculty,  overruling  reason. 
The  opposite  is  the  "discreto,"  he  in  whom  the  dis^cerning  f-AcuMy  has 
the  upper  hand  —  he  whose  reason  keeps   lao   imagination   under   due 


PREFATORY.  xiii 

<'  rucio,"  as  I  have  pointed  out  in  a  note,  but  it  has  so  hjiig 
done  duty  as  the  distinctive  title  of  Sancho's  ass  that  nobody, 
probably,  connects  the  idea  of  color  with  it.  "  Curate  "  is  not 
an  accurate  translation  of  "  cura,"  but  no  one  is  likely  to  con- 
found Don  Quixote's  good  fussy  neighbor  with  the  curate  who 
figures  in  modern  fiction.  For  ''  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Coun- 
tenance," no  defence  is  necessary,  for,  as  I  have  shown  (r. 
Chap,  xix.),  it  is  quite  right ;  Sancho  uses  "  triste  figura  "  as 
synonymous  with  "  mala  cara." 

The  names  of  things  peculiarly  Spanish,  like  "  olla,"  "  bota," 
<'  alforjas,"  etc.,  are,  I  think,  better  left  in  their  original 
Spanish.  Translations  like  "  bottle  "  and  ''  saddle-bags  "  give 
an  incorrect  idea,  and  books  of  travel  in  Spain  have  made  the 
words  sufficiently  familiar  to  most  readers.  It  is  less  easy  to 
deal  with  the  class  of  Avords  that  are  untranslatable,  or  at 
least  translatable  only  by  two  or  more  words  ;  such  words  as 
"  desengaiio,"  "  discreto,"  "  donaire,"  and  the  like,  which  in 
cases  where  conciseness  is  of  at  least  equal  importance  with 
literality  must  often  be  left  only  partially  translated. 

Of  course  a  translator  who  holds  that  '■'■  Don  Quixote  "  should 
receive  the  treatment  a  great  classic  deserves,  will  feel  him- 
self bound  by  the  injunction  laid  upon  the  Morisco  in  chapter 
ix.  not  to  omit  or  add  anything.  Eveiy  one  who  takes  up  a 
sixteenth  or  seventeenth  century  author  knows  very  well  before- 
hand that  he  need  not  expect  to  find  strict  observance  of  the 
canons  of  nineteenth  century  society.  Two  or  three  hundred 
years  ago,  words,  phrases,  and  allusions  where  current  in 
ordinary  conversation  which  would  be  as  inadmissible  now  as 
the  costume  of  our  first  parents,  and  an  author  who  reflects  the 
life  and  manners  of  his  time  must  necessarily  reflect  its  lan- 
guage also. 

This  is  the  case  of  Cervantes.  There  is  no  more  apology 
needed  on  his  behalf  than  on  behalf  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived.  He  was  not  one  of  those  authors  for  whom  dirt  has 
the  attraction  it  has  for  the  blue  bottle ;  he  was  not  even  one 
of  those  that  with  a  jolly  indifference  treat  it  as  capital 
matter  to  make  a  joke  of.  Compared  with  his  contempo- 
raries and  most  ol  his  successors  who  dealt  with  life  and 
manners,  he  is  purity  itself ;  there  are  words,  phrases,  and 
allusions  that  one  could  wish  away,  there  are  things  —  though 

control.  The  distinction  is  admirably  worked  out  in  chapters  xvi.,  xvii., 
and  xviii.  of  Part  II. 


xiv  INTRODUCTION, 

very  few  after  all  —  tliat  offend  one,  but  there  is  no  impurity 
to  give  offence  in  the  writings  of  Cervantes. 

The  text  I  have  followed  generally  is  Hartzenbusch's.  But 
Hartzenbnsch,  though  the  most  scholarly  of  the  editors  and 
commentators  of  '^  Don  Quixote,"  is  not  always  an  absolutely 
safe  guide.  His  text  is  preferable  to  that  of  the  Academy 
in  being,  as  far  as  the  First  Part  is  concerned,  based  upon 
the  first  of  La  Cuesta's  three  editions,  instead  of  the  third, 
which  the  Academy  took  as  its  basis  on  the  supposition  (an 
erroneous  one,  as  I  have  shown  elsewhere)  that  it  had  been 
corrected  by  Cervantes  himself.  His  emendations  are  fre- 
quently admirable,  and  remove  difficulties  and  make  rough 
places  smooth  in  a  manner  that  must  commend  itself  to  every 
intelligent  reader;  but  his  love  and  veneration  for  Cervantes 
too  often  get  the  better  of  the  judicious  conservatism  that 
should  be  an  editor's  guiding  principle  in  dealing  with  the 
text  of  an  old  author.  Notwithstanding  the  abundant  evi- 
dence before  him  that  Cervantes  was  —  to  use  no  stronger 
Avord  —  a  careless  writer,  he  insists  upon  attributing  every 
blunder,  inconsistency,  or  slipshod  or  awkward  phrase  to  the 
printers.  Cervantes,  he  argues,  wrote  a  hasty  and  somewhat 
illegible  hand,  his  failing  eyesight  made  revision  or  correction 
of  his  manuscript  an  irksome  task  to  him,  and  the  printers 
were  consequently  often  driven  to  conjecture.  He  considers 
himself,  therefore,  at  libert)^  to  reject  whatever  jars  upon  his 
sense  of  propriet}^,  and  substitute  what,  in  his  judgment,  Cer- 
vantes "  must  have  written." 

It  is  needless  to  point  out  the  destructive  results  that  would 
follow  the  adoption  of  this  principle  in  settling  the  text  of  old 
authors.  In  Hartzenbusch's  "  Don  Quixote  "  it  has  led  to  a 
good  deal  of  unnecessary  tampering  with  the  text,  and,  in  not 
a  few  instances,  to  something  that  is  the  reverse  of  emenda- 
tion. He  is  not,  therefore,  by  any  means  an  editor  to  be 
slavishly  followed,  though  all  who  -know  his  editions  will  cor- 
dially acknowledge  his  services,  among  which  may  be  reck- 
oned his  judicious  arrangement  of  the  text  into  paragraphs, 
and  the  care  he  has  bestowed  upon  the  punctuation,  matters 
too  much  neglected  by  his  predecessors.  Nor  is  the  valuable 
body  of  notes  he  has  brought  together  the  least  of  them.  In 
this  respect  he  comes  next  to  Clemencin;  but  the  industry 
and  erudition  of  that  indefatigable  commentator  have  left  com- 
paratively few  gleanings  for  those  who  come  after  him. 


CERVANTES.  XV 

To  both,  as  well  as  to  Pellicer,  I  have  had  frequent  recourse, 
as  my  own  notes  will  show. 

The  tales  introduced  by  Cervantes  in  the  First  Part  have 
been  printed  in  a  smaller  type ;  they  are,  as  he  himself  freely 
admits,  intrusive  matter,  and  if  they  cannot  be  removed,  they 
should  at  least  be  distinguished  as  wholly  subordinate. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  account  given  in  the  appendix 
of  the  editions  and  translations  of  '•  Don  Quixote  "  does  not 
pretend  to  be  a  full  bibliography,  which,  indeed,  would  require 
a  volume  to  itself.  It  is,  however,  though  necessarily  an  im- 
perfect sketch,  fuller  and  more  accurate,  I  think,  than  any 
that  has  appeared,  and  it  will,  at  any  rate,  serve  to  show, 
better  than  could  be  shown  by  any  other  means,  how  the  book 
made  its  way  in  the  world,  and  at  the  same  time  indicate  the 
relative  importance  of  the  various  editions. 

The  account  of  the  chivalry  romances  will  give  the  reader 
some  idea  of  the  extent  and  character  of  the  literature  that 
supplied  Cervantes  with  the  motive  for  "  Don  Quixote." 

Proverbs  form  a  part  of  the  national  literature  of  Spain,  and 
the  proverbs  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  have  always  been  regarded  as 
a  characteristic  feature  of  the  book.  They  are,  moreover, 
independently  of  their  wit,  humor,  and  sagacity,  choice  speci- 
mens of  pure  old  Castilian.  The  reader  will  probably,  there- 
fore, be  glad  to  have  them  in  their  original  form,  arranged 
alphabetically  according  to  what  is  of  course  the  only  rational 
arrangement  for  proverbs,  that  of  key-words,  and  numbered  for 
convenience  of  reference  in  the  notes. 


CERVANTES. 

Four  generations  had  laughed  over  "  Don  Quixote  "  before 
it  occurred  to  any  one  to  ask,  who  and  what  manner  of  man 
was  this  Miguel  de  Cervantes  Saavedra  whose  name  is  on  the 
titlepage  ;  and  it  was  too  late  for  a  satisfactory  answer  to  the 
question  when  it  was  proposed  to  add  a  life  of  the  author  to 
the  London  edition  published  at  Lord  Carteret's  instance  in 
1738.  All  traces  of  the  personality  of  Cervantes  had  by  that 
time  disappeared.  Any  floating  traditions  that  may  once  have 
existed,  transmitted  from  men  who  had  known  him,  had  long 
since  died  out,  and  of  other  record  there  was  none ;  for  the 


xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  were  incurious  as  to  "  the 
men  of  the  time,"  a  reproach  against  which  the  nineteenth 
has,  at  any  rate,  secured  itself,  if  it  has  produced  no  Shake- 
speare or  Cervantes.  All  that  Mayans  y  Siscar,  to  whom  the 
task  was  intrusted,  or  any  of  those  who  followed  him,  Kios, 
Pellicer,  or  Navarrete,  could  do  was  to  eke  out  the  few  allu- 
sions Cervantes  makes  to  himself  in  his  various  prefaces  with 
such  pieces  of  documentary  evidence  bearing  upon  his  life  as 
they  could  find. 

This,  however,  has  been  done  by  the  last-named  biographer 
to  such  good  purpose  that,  while  he  has  superseded  all  prede- 
cessors, he  has  left  it  somewhat  more  than  doubtful  whether 
any  successor  will  ever  supersede  him.  Thoroughness  is  the 
chief  characteristic  of  ISTavarrete's  work.  Besides  sifting,  test- 
ing, and  methodizing  with  rare  patience  and  judgment  what 
had  been  previously  brought  to  light,  he  left,  as  the  saying  is, 
no  stone  unturned  under  which  an}- thing  to  illustrate  his  sub- 
ject might  possibly  be  found,  and  all  the  research  of  the  sixty- 
five  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  publication  of  his  "  Life 
of  Cervantes "  has  been  able  to  add  but  little  or  nothing  of 
importance  to  the  mass  of  facts  he  collected  and  put  in  order. 
]Sr avarrete  has  done  all  that  industry  and  acumen  could  do,  and 
it  is  no  fault  of  his  if  he  has  not  given  us  what  we  want. 
What  Hallam  says  of  Shakespeare  may  be  applied  to  the 
almost  parallel  case  of  Cervantes :  "  It  is  not  the  register  of 
his  baptism,  or  the  di-aft  of  his  will,  or  the  orthography  of  his 
name  that  we  seek ;  no  letter  of  his  writing,  no  record  of  his 
conversation,  no  character  of  him  drawn  with  any  fulness  by 
a  contemporary  has  been  produced."  By  the  irony  of  fate  all 
or  almost  all  we  know  of  the  greatest  poet  the  world  has  ever 
seen  is  contained  in  documents  the  most  prosaic  the  art  of  man 
can  produce,  and  he  who  of  all  the  men  that  ever  lived  soared 
highest  above  this  earth  is  seen  to  us  only  as  a  long-headed 
man  of  business,  as  shrewd  and  methodical  in  money  matters 
as  the  veriest  Philistine  among  us.  Of  Cervantes  we  certainly 
know  more  than  we  do  of  Shakespeare,  but  of  what  we  know 
the  greater  part  is  derived  from  sources  of  the  same  sort,  from 
formal  documents  of  one  kind  or  another.  Here,  however, 
the  resemblance  ends.  In  Shakespeare's  case  the  document- 
ary evidence  points  always  to  prosperity  and  success ;  in  the 
case  of  Cervantes  it  tells  of  difficulties,  embarrassments,  or 
struggles. 


CERVANTES.  xvii 

It  is  only  natural,  tlierefore,  that  the  biographers  of  Cer- 
vantes, forced  to  make  brick  without  straw,  should  have  re- 
course largely  to  conjecture,  and  that  conjecture  should  in 
some  instances  come  by  degrees  to  take  the  place  of  estab- 
lished fact.  All  that  I  propose  to  do  here  is  to  separate  what 
is  matter  of  fact  from  what  is  matter  of  conjecture,  and  leave 
it  to  the  reader's  judgment  to  decide  whether  the  data  justify 
the  inference  or  not. 

The  men  whose  names  by  common  consent  stand  in  the 
front  rank  of  Spanish  literature,  Cervantes,  Lope  de  Vega, 
Quevedo,  Calderon,  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  the  Mendozas,  Gon- 
gora,  were  all  men  of  ancient  families,  and,  curiously,  all,  ex- 
cept the  last,  of  families  that  traced  their  origin  to  the  same 
mountain  district  in  the  north  of  Spain.  The  family  of  Cer- 
vantes is  commonly  said  to  have  been  of  Galician  origin,  and 
unquestionably  it  was  in  possession  of  lands  in  Galicia  at  a 
very  early  date ;  but  I  think  the  balance  of  the  evidence  tends 
to  show  that  the  "  solar,"  the  original  site  of  the  family,  was 
at  Cervatos  in  the  north-west  corner  of  Old  Castile,  close  to 
the  junction  of  Castile,  Leon,  and  the  Asturias.  As  it  hap- 
pens, there  is  a  complete  history  of  the  Cervantes  family  from 
the  tenth  century  down  to  the  seventeenth,  extant  under 
the  title  of  "  Illustrious  Ancestry,  Glorious  Deeds,  and  Noble 
Posterity  of  the  Famous  Nuno  Alfonso,  Alcaide  of  Toledo," 
written  in  1648  by  the  industrious  genealogist  Rodrigo  Mendez 
Silva,  who  availed  himself  of  a  manuscript  genealogy  by  Juan 
de  Mena,  the  poet  laureate  and  historiographer  of  John  11. 

The  origin  of  the  name  Cervantes  is  curious.  Nuno  Alfonso 
was  almost  as  distinguished  in  the  struggle  against  the  Moors 
in  the  reign  of  Alfonso  VII.  as  the  Cid  had  been  half  a  cen- 
tury before  in  that  of  Alfonso  VI.,  and  was  rewarded  by 
divers  grants  of  land  in  the  neighborhood  of  Toledo.  On  one 
of  his  acquisitions,  about  two  leagues  from  the  city,  he  built 
himself  a  castle  which  he  called  Cervatos,  because  —  so  Salazar 
de  Mendoza,  in  his  "  Dignidades  de  Castilla  "  (161S),  gives  us 
to  understand  —  "  he  was  lord  of  the  solar  of  Servatos  in  the 
Montaiia,"  as  the  mountain  region  extending  from  the  Basque 
Provinces  to  Leon  was  always  called.  At  his  death  in  battle 
in  114.3,  the  castle  passed  by  his  will  to  his  son  Alfonso 
Munio,  who,  as  territorial  or  local  surnames  were  then  coming 
into  vogue  in  place  of  the  simple  patronymic,  took  the  addi- 
tional name  of  Cervatos.     His  eldest  sou  Pedro  succeeded  him 

Vol,  I.  - 1, 


xviii  INTRODUCTION. 

in  the  possession  of  tlie  castle,  and  followed  his  example  in 
adopting  the  name,  an  assumption  at  which  the  younger  son, 
Gonzalo,  seems  to  have  taken  umbrage. 

Every  one  who  has  paid  even  a  flying  visit  to  Toledo  will 
remember  the  ruined  castle  that  crowns  the  hill  above  the  spot 
where  the  bridge  of  Alcantara  spans  the  gorge  of  the  Tagus, 
and  with  its  broken  outline  and  crumbling  walls  makes  such 
an  admirable  pendant  to  the  square  solid  Alcazar  towering 
over  the  city  roofs  on  the  opposite  side.  It  was  built,  or  as 
some  say  restored,  by  Alfonso  VI.  shortly  after  his  occupation 
of  Toledo  in  1085,  and  called  by  him  San  Servando  after  a 
Spanish  martyr,  a  name  subsequently  modified  into  San 
Servan  (in  which  form  it  appears  in  the  "  Poem  of  the  Cid  "), 
San  Servantes,  and  San  Cervantes  :  with  regard  to  which  last 
the  "  Handbook  for  Spain  "  warns  its  readers  against  the  sup- 
position that  it  has  anything  to  do  with  the  author  of  "  Don 
Quixote."  Ford,  as  all  know  who  have  taken  him  for  a  com- 
panion and  counsellor  on  the  roads  of  Spain,  is  seldom  wrong 
in  matters  of  literature  or  history.  In  this  instance,  however, 
he  is  in  error.  It  has  everything  to  do  with  the  author  of 
"  Don  Quixote,"  for  it  is  in  fact  these  old  walls  that  have 
given  to  Spain  the  name  she  is  proudest  of  to-day.  Gonzalo, 
above  mentioned,  it  may  be  readily  conceived,  did  not  relish 
the  appropriation  by  his  brother  of  a  name  to  which  he  him- 
self had  an  equal  right,  for  though  nominally  taken  from  the 
castle,  it  was  in  reality  derived  from  the  ancient  territorial 
possession  of  the  family ;  and  as  a  set-off,  and  to  distinguish 
himself  (diferenciarse)  from  his  brother,  he  took  as  a  surname 
the  name  of  the  castle  on  the  bank  of  the  Tagus,  in  the  build- 
ing of  which,  according  to  a  family  tradition,  his  great-grand- 
father had  a  share.  At  the  same  time,  too,  in  place  of  the 
family  arms,  two  stags  ("  cervato  "  means  a  young  stag)  on  a 
field  azure,  he  took  two  hinds  on  a  field  vert.  The  story  de- 
serves notice,  if  for  no  other  reason,  because  it  disposes  of 
Conde's  ingenious  theory  that  by  "  Ben-engeli  "  Cervantes  in- 
tended an  Arabic  translation  of  his  own  name.  Cervantes  was 
as  unlikely  a  man  as  Scott  to  be  ignorant  of  his  own  family 
history,  or  to  suppose  that  the  name  he  bore  meant  "  son  of 
the  stag." 

Both  brothers  founded  families.  The  Cervatos  branch 
flourished  for  a  considerable  time,  and  held  many  high  offices 
in  Toledo,  but,  according  to  Salazar  de  Mendoza,  it  had  become 


CERVANTES.  Xix 

extinct  and  its  possessions  had  passed  into  other  families  in 
1618.  The  Cervantes  branch  had  more  tenacity;  it  sent  ott- 
shoots  in  various  directions,  Andalusia,  Estremadura,  Galicia, 
and  Portugal,  and  produced  a  goodly  line  of  men  distinguished 
in  the  service  of  Church  and  State.  Gonzalo  himself,  and 
apparently  a  son  of  his,  followed  Ferdinand  III.  in  the  great 
campaign  of  1236-48  that  gave  Cordova  and  Seville  to  Chris- 
tian Spain  and  penned  up  the  Moors  in  the  kingdom  of 
Granada,  and  his  descendants  intermarried  with  some  of  the 
noblest  families  of  the  Peninsula  and  numbered  among  them 
soldiers,  magistrates,  and  Church  dignitaries,  including  at  least 
two  cardinal  archbishops. 

Of  the  line  that  settled  in  Andalusia,  Diego  de  Cervantes, 
Commander  of  the  Order  of  Santiago,  married  Juana  Avella- 
neda,  daughter  of  Juan  Arias  de  Saavedra,  and  had  several 
sons,  of  whom  one  was  Gonzalo  Gomez,  Corregidor  of  Jerez  and 
ancestor  of  the  Mexican  and  Columbian  branches  of  the  family ; 
and  another,  Juan,  whose  son  Rodrigo  married  Dona  Leonor 
de  Cortinas,  and  by  her  had  four  children,  Rodrigo,  Andrea, 
Luisa,  and  Miguel,  the'  author  of  "  Don  Quixote.'" '  It  is  true 
that  documentary  evidence  is  wanting  for  the  absolute  identi- 
fication of  Juan  the  Corregidor  of  Osuna,  whom  we  know  to 
have  been  the  grandfather  of  Cervantes,  with  Juan  the  son  of 
Diego,  but  it  is  not  a  question  that  admits  of  any  reasonable 
doubt.  It  is  difficult  to  see  who  else  he  could  have  been 
if  the  date  and  circumstances  of  the  case  are  taken  into  con- 
sideration, or  how,  unless  he  was  the  issue  of  the  marriage 
with  the  daughter  of  Juan  de  Saavedra,  his  grandson  could 
have  been  Cervantes  Saavedra ;  while  his  name  Juan  points  to 
his  having  been  the  son  of  Juana  and  grandson  of  the  two 
Juans,  Cervantes  and  Saavedra.  The  pedigree  of  Cervantes  is 
not  without  its  bearing  on  "  Don  Quixote."  A  man  who  could 
look  back  upon  an  ancestry  of  genuine  knights-errant  extending 
from  well-nigh  the  time  of  Pelayo  to  the  siege  of  Granada  was 
likely  to  have  a  strong  feeling  on  the  subject  of  the  sham 
chivalry  of  the  romances.  It  gives  a  point,  too,  to  what  he 
says  in  more  than  one  ijlace  about  families  that  have  once  been 
great  and  have  tapered  away  until  they  have  come  to  nothing, 
like  a  pyramid.     It  was  the  case  of  his  own. 

He  was  born  at  Alcala  de  Henares,  possibly,  as  his  name 
seems  to  suggest,  on  St.  Michael's  Day,  and  baptized  in  the 
'  See  n?xt  p.ii,fe  for  genealogical  table. 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

church  of  Santa  Maria  Mayor  on  the  9th  of  October,  1547. 
Of  his  boyhood  and  youth  we  knoAV  nothing,  unless  it  be  from 
the  glimpse  he  gives  us  in  the  preface  to  his  "  Comedies  "  of 
himself  as  a  boy  looking  on  with  delight  while  Lope  de  Rueda 
and  his  company  set  up  their  rude  plank  stage  in  the  plaza 
and  acted  the  rustic  farces  which  he  himself  afterwards  took 

*  Tello  Mdrielliz  (Rico  Home  of  Castile,  A.D.  988). 

I 
Oveco  Tellez. 

I 
Gonzalo  Ovequiz. 

Aldefonso  Gonzalez. 

I 
Munio  Aldefonso. 

I 
Aldefonso  Munio  (with  Alfonso  VI.  at  Toledo,  1085). 

I 
Nuno  Alfonso  (Alcaide  of  Toledo,  d.  1143). 

I 


Pedro  I  I 

Guttierez=Gimena.       Alfonso  Munio  de  Cervatos. 


Pedro  Alfonso       Gonzalo  de  Cervantes  (with  Ferdinand  III. 
de  Cervatos.  I  at  Seville  in  1248). 

Ferdinand  of  Aragon.  Juan  Alfonso  de  Cervantes  (Commander  of  the 

I  Order  of  Calatrava). 

Alonso  Gomez  Tequetiques  de  Cervantes. 

Diego  Gomez  de  Cervantes  (first  to  settle  in  Andalusia). 


Rui  Gomez  de  Cervantes  Gonzalo  Gomez  de  Cervantes. 

(Prior  of  the  Order  of  San  Juan).  I 


Cardinal  Juan  de  Cervantes  Rodrigo        Diego  Gomez   /Prior  of  the\ 

(Archbishopof  Seville,  1453).  de  Cervantes,  de  Cervantes    I    Order  of    | 

I  \  San  Juan.  / 

Juan  de  Cervantes  (Veinticuatro  of  Seville  temp.  John  II.). 


Diego  de  Cervantes  =  Juana  Avellaneda, 
(Commander  of  the  Order  of  Santiago).  I       d.  of  Juan  Arias  de  Saavedra. 

Juan  de  Cervantes  (Corregidor  of  Osuna).      Gonzalo  Gomez  de  Cervantes 
I  (Corregidor  of  Jerez). 

Rodrigo  de  Cervantes  =  Leonor  de  Cortinas. 


i i  i  I 

Rodrigo,  h.  1543.        Andrea,  b.  1544.        Luisa,  h.  1546.        Miguel,  h.  1547. 


CERVANTES.  Xxi 

as  the  model  of  liis  interludes.  This  lirst  glimpse,  however,  is  a 
significant  one,  for  it  shows  the  early  development  of  that  love 
of  the  drama  which  exercised  such  an  influence  on  his  life  and 
seems  to  have  grown  stronger  as  he  grew  older,  and  of  which 
this  very  preface,  written  only  a  few  months  before  his  death, 
is  such  a  striking  proof.  He  gives  us  to  understand,  too,  that 
he  was  a  great  reader  in  his  youth  ;  but  of  this  no  assurance 
was  needed,  for  the  First  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  alone  proves 
a  vast  amount  of  miscellaneous  reading,  romances  of  chivalry, 
ballads,  popular  poetry,  chronicles,  for  which  he  had  no  time 
or  opportunity  except  in  the  first  twenty  years  of  his  life  ;  and 
his  misquotations  and  mistakes  in  matters  of  detail  are  al- 
ways, it  may  be  noticed,  those  of  a  man  recalling  the  reading 
of  his  boyhood. 

Other  things  besides  the  drama  were  in  their  infancy  when 
Cervantes  was  a  boy.  The  period  of  his  boyhood  was  in  every 
way  a  transition  period  for  Spain.  The  old  chivalrous  Spain 
had  passed  away.  Its  work  was  done  when  Granada  surren- 
dered. The  new  Spain  was  the  mightiest  power  the  world  had 
seen  since  the  Roman  Empire,  and  it  had  not  yet  been  called 
upon  to  pay  the  price  of  its  greatness.  By  the  policy  of  Ferdi- 
nand and  Ximenez  the  sovereign  had  been  made  absolute,  and 
the  Church  and  Inquisition  adroitly  adjusted  to  keep  him  so. 
The  nobles,  who  had  always  resisted  absolutism  as  strenuously 
as  they  had  fought  the  Moors,  had  been  divested  of  all  political 
power,  a  like  fate  had  befallen  the  cities,  the  free  constitutions 
of  Castile  and  Aragon  had  been  swept  away,  and  the  only 
function  that  remained  to  the  Cortes  was  that  of  granting 
money  at  the  King's  dictation.  But  the  loss  of  liberty  was 
not  felt  immediately,  for  Charles  V.  was  like  an  accomplished 
horseman  with  a  firm  seat  and  a  light  hand,  who  can  manage 
the  steed  without  fretting  it,  and  make  it  do  his  will  while  he 
leaves  its  movements  to  all  appearance  free. 

The  transition  extended  to  literature.  Men  who,  like  Gar- 
cilaso  de  la  Vega  and  Diego  Hurtado  de  Mendoza,  followed 
the  Italian  wars,  had  brought  back  from  Italy  the  products  of 
the  post-Renaissance  literature,  which  took  root  and  flourished 
and  even  threatened  to  extinguish  the  native  growths.  Damon 
and  Thyrsis,  Phillis  and  Chloe  had  been  fairly  naturalized  in 
Spain,  together  with  all  the  devices  of  pastoral  poetry  for 
investing  with  an  air  of  novelty  the  idea  of  a  despairing 
shepherd  and  inflexible  shepherdess.     Sannazaro's  "  Arcadia  " 


xxii  INTRODUCTION. 

had  introduced  the  taste  for  prose  pastorals,  which  soon  bore 
fruit  in  Montemayor's  "  Diana  "  and  its  successors ;  and  as  for 
the  sonnet,  it  was  spreading  like  the  rabbit  in  Australia.  As 
a  set-off  against  this,  the  old  historical  and  traditional  ballads, 
and  the  true  pastorals,  the  songs  and  ballads  of  peasant  life, 
were  being  collected  assiduously  and  printed  in  the  cancioneros 
that  succeeded  one  another  with  increasing  rapidity.  But  the 
most  notable  consequence,  perhaps,  of  the  spread  of  printing 
was  the  flood  of  romances  of  chivalry  that  had  continued  to 
]DOur  from  the  press  ever  since  Garci  Ordoilez  de  Montalvo  had 
resuscitated  "'  Amadis  of  Gaul  "  at  the  beginning  of  the  century. 

For  a  youth  fond  of  reading,  solid  or  light,  there  could 
have  been  no  better  spot  in  Spain  than  Alcala  de  Henares  in 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  It  was  then  a  busy, 
pofulous  ixniversity  town,  something  more  than  the  enter- 
prising rival  of  Salamanca,  and  altogether  a  very  diiferent 
place  from  the  melancholy,  silent,  deserted  Alcala  the  trav- 
eller sees  now  as  he  goes  from  Madrid  to  Saragossa.  Theol- 
ogy and  medicine  may  have  been  the  strong  points  of  the 
university,  but  the  town  itself  seems  to  have  inclined  rather 
to  the  humanities  and  light  literature,  and  as  a  producer  of 
books  Alcala  was  already  beginning  to  compete  with  the 
older   presses  of  Toledo,  Burgos,   Salamanca,  and  Seville. 

A  pendant  to  the  picture  Cervantes  has  given  us  of  his 
first  playgoings  might,  no  doubt,  have  been  often  seen  in  the 
street^  of  Alcala  at  that  time ;  a  bright,  eager,  tawny -haired 
boy  peering  into  a  bookshop  where  the  latest  volumes  lay 
open  to  tempt  the  public,  wondering,  it  may  be,  what  that 
little  book  with  the  woodcut  of  the  blind  beggar  and  his  boy, 
that  called  itself  "  Vida  de  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  segunda 
impresion,"  could  be  about ;  or  with  eyes  brimming  over  with 
merriment  gazing  at  one  of  those  preposterous  portraits  of  a 
knight-errant  in  outrageous  panoply  and  plumes  with  which 
the  publishers  of  chivalry  romances  loved  to  embellish  the 
titlepages  of  their  folios.  He  had  seen  the  Emperor's  German 
ritters  many  a  time,  but  they  were  slim  pages  in  satin  com- 
pared with  this.  What  fun  it  would  be  to  see  such  a  figure 
come  charging  into  the  plaza !  How  he  'd  frighten  the  old 
women  and  scatter  the  turkeys  !  If  the  boy  was  the  father 
of  the  man,  the  sense  of  the  incongruous  that  was  strong  at 
fifty  was  lively  at  ten,  and  some  such  reflections  as  these  may 
have  been  the  true  genesis  of  "  Den  Quixote." 


CERVANTES.  xxiii 

For  his  more  solid  education,  we  are  told,  he  went  to  Sala- 
manca. l>ut  why  Rodrigo  de  Cervantes,  who  was  very  poor, 
should  have  sent  his  son  to  a  nniversity  a  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  away  when  he  had  one  at  his  own  door,  would  be  a 
puzzle,  if  we  had  any  reason  for  supposing  that  he  did  so. 
The  only  evidence  is  a  vague  statement  by  Professor  Tomas 
Gonzalez,  that  he  once  saw  an  old  entry  of  the  matriculation 
of  a  Miguel  de  Cervantes.  This  does  not  appear  to  have  been 
ever  seen  again ;  but  even  if  it  had,  and  if  the  date  corre- 
sponded, it  would  prove  nothing,  as  there  were  at  least  two 
other  Miguels  born  about  the  middle  of  the  century ;  one  of 
them,  moreover,  a  Cervantes  Saavedra,  a  cousin,  no  doubt, 
who  was  a  source  of  great  embarassment  to  tlie  biographers. 

That  he  was  a  student  neither  at  Salamanca  nor  at  Alcala 
is  best  proved  by  his  own  works.  No  man  drew  more  largely 
upon  experience  than  he  did,  and  he  has  nowhere  left  a  single 
reminiscence  of  student  life  —  for  the  "  Tia  Fingida,"  if  it 
be  his,  is  not  one  —  nothing,  not  even  "a  college  joke,"  to 
show  that  he  remembered  days  that  most  men  remember  best, 
All  that  we  know  positively  about  his  education  is  that  Juan 
Lopez  de  Hoyos,  a  professor  of  humanities  and  belles-lettres 
of  some  eminence,  calls  him  his  ''  dear  and  beloved  pupil." 
This  was  in  a  little  collection  of  verses  by  different  hands  on 
the  death  of  Isabel  de  Valois,  second  queen  of  Philip  II., 
published  by  the  professor  in  15G9,  to  which  Cervantes  con- 
tributed four  pieces,  including  an  elegy,  and  an  epitaph  in  the 
form  of  a  sonnet.  It  is  only  by  a  rare  chance  that  a  "  Lyci- 
das  "  finds  its  way  into  a  volume  of  this  sort,  and  Cervantes 
was  no  Milton.  His  verses  are  no  worse  than  such  things 
usually  are ;  so  much,  at  least,  may  be  said  for  them. 

By  the  time  the  book  appeared  he  had  left  Spain,  and,  as 
fate  ordered  it,  for  twelve  years,  the  most  eventful  ones  of  his 
life.  Giulio,  afterwards  Cardinal,  Acquaviva  had  been  sent 
at  the  end  of  1568  to  Philip  11.  by  the  Pope  on  a  mission, 
partly  of  condolence,  partly  political,  and  on  his  return  to 
Home,  which  was  somewhat  brusquely  expedited  by  the  King, 
he  took  Cervantes  with  him  as  his  eamerero  (chamberlain), 
the  office  he  himself  held  in  the  Pope's  household.  The  post 
would  no  doubt  have  led  to  advancement  at  the  Papal  Court 
had  C'ervantes  retained  it,  but  in  the  summer  of  loTO  he  re- 
signed it  and  enlisted  as  a  private  soldier  in  Captain  Diego 
de  Urbina's  company,  belonging  to  Don  Miguel  de  Moncada's 


xxiv  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

regiment,  but  at  that  time  forming  a  part  of  the  command  of 
Marc  Antony  Colonna.  What  impelled  him  to  this  step  we 
know  not,  whether  it  was  distaste  for  the  career  before  him, 
or  purely  military  enthusiasm.  It  may  well  have  been  the 
latter,  for  it  was  a  stirring  time ;  the  events,  however,  which 
led  to  the  alliance  between  Spain,  Venice,  and  the  Pope,  against 
the  common  enemy,  the  Porte,  and  to  the  victory  of  the  com- 
bined fleets  at  Lepanto,  belong  rather  to  the  history  of  Europe 
than  to  the  life  of  Cervantes.  He  was  one  of  those  that  sailed 
from  Messina,  in  September  1571,  under  the  command  of  Don 
John  of  Austria ;  but  on  the  morning  of  the  7th  of  October, 
when  the  Turkish  fleet  was  sighted,  he  was  lying  below  ill 
with  fever.  At  the  news  that  the  enemy  was  in  sight  he  rose, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  remonstrances  of  his  comrades  and  superiors, 
insisted  on  taking  his  post,  saying  he  preferred  death  in  the 
service  of  God  and  the  King  to  health.  His  galley,  the  Mar- 
quesa,  was  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  and  before  it  was  over  he 
had  received  three  gunshot  wounds,  two  in  the  breast  and  one 
in  the  left  hand  or  arm.  On  the  morning  after  the  battle, 
according  to  ISTavarrete,  he  had  an  interview  with  the  com- 
mander-in-chief, Don  John,  who  was  making  a  personal  inspec- 
tion of  the  wounded,  one  result  of  which  was  an  addition  of 
three  crowns  to  his  pay,  and  another,  apparently,  the  friend- 
ship of  his  general.  Strada  says  of  Don  John  that  he  knew 
personally  every  soldier  under  his  command,  but  at  any  rate 
it  was  as  much  for  his  friendly  bearing  and  solicitude  for  their 
comfort  and  well-being  as  for  his  abilities  and  gallantry  in  the 
field  that  he  was  beloved  by  his  men,  and  it  is  easy  to  con- 
ceive that  he  should  have  taken  a  special  interest  in  the  case 
of  Cervantes,  who,  it  may  be  observed,  was  exactly  his  own 
age,  and  curiously  enough  —  though  it  is  not  very  likely  Don 
John  was  aware  of  the  fact  —  his  kinsman  in  a  remote  degree, 
inasmuch  as  the  mother  of  Ferdinand  of  Aragon  was  a  de- 
scendant of  Kuiio  Alfonso  above  mentioned. 

How  severely  Cervantes  was  wounded  may  be  inferred  from 
the  fact,  that  with  youth,  a  vigorous  frame,  and  as  cheerful 
and  buoyant  a  temperament  as  ever  invalid  had,  he  Avas  seven 
ponths  in  hospital  at  Messina  before  he  was  discharged.  He 
came  out  with  his  left  hand  permanently  disabled ;  he  had 
lost  the  use  of  it,  as  Mercury  told  him  in  the  "  Viaje  del  Par- 
naso,"  for  the  greater  glory  of  the  right.  This,  however,  did 
not  absolutely  unfit  him  for  service,  and  in  April   1572   he 


CERVANTES.  XxV 

joined  Manuel  Ponce  de  Leon's  company  of  Lope  de  Figneroa's 
regiment,  in  wliicli,  it  seems  probable,  his  brother  Rodrigo 
was  serving,  and  shared  in  the  operations  of  the  next  three 
years,  including  the  cajtture  of  the  Goletta  and  Tunis.  Tak- 
ing advantage  of  the  lull  which  followed  the  recapture  of 
these  places  by  the  Turks,  he  obtained  leave  to  return  to 
Spain,  and  sailed  from  Naples  in  September  1575  on  board 
the  Sun  galley,  in  company  with  his  brother  Eodrigo,  Pedro 
Carillo  de  Quesada,  late  Governor  of  the  Goletta,  and  some 
others,  and  furnished  with  letters  from  Don  John  of  Austria 
and  the  Duke  of  Sesa,  the  Viceroy  of  Sicily,  recommending 
him  to  the  King  for  the  command  of  a  company,  on  account 
of  his  services ;  a  dono  infelire  as  events  proved.  On  the  2()th 
they  fell  in  with  a  squadron  of  Algerine  galleys,  and  after  a 
stout  resistance  were  overpowered  and  carried  into  Algiers. 

It  is  not  easy  to  resist  the  temptation  to  linger  over  the 
story  of  Cervantes'  captivity  in  Algiers,  for  in  truth  a  more 
wonderful  story  has  seldom  been  told.  Alexandre  Dumas 
could  hardly  have  invented  so  marvellous  a  series  of  adven- 
tures, and  certainly  would  have  hesitated  before  he  asked  even 
romance  readers  to  accept  anything  so  improbable.  Never- 
theless, incredible  as  the  tale  may  seem,  there  is  evidence  for 
every  particular  that  scepticism  itself  will  not  venture  to  call 
in  question.  At  the  distribution  of  the  captives,  Cervantes 
fell  to  the  share  of  one  Ali  or  Dali  Mami,  the  rais  or  captain 
of  one  of  the  galleys,  and  a  renegade,  as  were  almost  all  em- 
barked in  the  trade ;  for  a  trade  the  capture  of  Christians  had 
now  become,  as  Cervantes  implies  in  the  title  of  the  "•  Trato 
de  Argel."  The  Turks,  to  supply  the  demand  for  rowers, 
dockyard  laborers,  and  the  like,  for  their  great  Mediterranean 
fleet,  had  long  been  in  the  habit  of  kidnapping,  either  by  mak- 
ing descents  upon  the  coasts,  or  seizing  the  crews  of  vessels  at 
sea.  Moved  by  the  sufferings  of  the  unhappy  victims,  noble- 
minded  men  of  various  religious  orders  in  Spain  devoted 
themselves  to  the  work  of  negotiating  the  release  of  as  many 
as  it  was  possible  to  ransom,  acting  as  intermediaries  between 
the  captors  and  the  friends  of  the  captives,  making  up  the 
sums  required  out  of  the  funds  contributed  by  the  charitable, 
and  even,  as  Cervantes  himself  says  in  the  "  Trato  de  Argel " 
and  the  novel  of  the  "  Espaiiola  Inglesa,"  surrendering  them- 
selves as  hostages  when  the  money  was  not  immediately  forth- 
coming.    It  seems  strange  that  a  proud  and  powerful  nation 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

should  have  submitted  to  this ;  and  stranger  still  that  Philip 
should  have  condescended  to  countenance  negotiations  of  the 
sort,  and  formally  recognize  the  Redemptorist  Fathers  as  his 
agents,  when  probably  a  tenth  of  the  force  he  was  employing 
to  stamp  out  heresy  among  his  Flemish  subjects  would  have 
sufficed  to  destroy  the  nest  of  pirates  that  was  the  centre  of 
the  trade.  To  this  pass  had  "  one-man  power  "  already  brought 
Spain  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  sixteenth  century.  As  is 
unhappily  often  the  case  with  philanthropic  efforts,  the  exer- 
tions of  the  good  Redemptorist  Fathers  aggravated  the  evil. 
They  supplied  an  additional  motive  for  capturing  Christians 
by  affording  facilities  for  converting  captives  into  cash,  and 
by  making  them  valuable  as  property  added  to  their  misery. 
By  means  of  a  ransomed  fellow-captive  the  brothers  con- 
trived to  inform  their  family  of  their  condition,  and  the  poor 
people  at  Alcala  at  once  strove  to  raise  the  ransom  money,  the 
father  disposing  of  all  he  possessed,  and  the  two  sisters  giving 
up  their  marriage  portions.  But  Dali  Mami  had  found  on 
Cervantes  the  letters  addressed  to  the  King  by  Don  John  and 
the  Duke  of  Sesa,  and,  concluding  that  his  prize  must  be  a 
person  of  great  consequence,  when  the  money  came  he  refused 
it  scornfully  as  being  altogether  insufficient.  The  owner  of 
Rodrigo,  however,  was  more  easily  satisfied;  ransom  was 
accepted  in  his  case,  and  it  was  arranged  between  the 
brothers  that  he  should  return  to  Spain  and  procure  a  vessel 
in  which  he  was  to  come  back  to  Algiers  and  take  off  Miguel 
and  as  many  of  their  comrades  as  possible.  This  was  not  the 
first  attempt  to  escape  that  Cervantes  had  made.  Soon  after 
the  commencement  of  his  captivity  he  induced  several  of  his 
companions  to  join  him  in  trying  to  reach  Oran,  then  a 
Spanish  post,  on  foot ;  but  after  the  first  day's  journey,  the 
Moor  who  had  agreed  to  act  as  their  guide  deserted  them, 
and  they  had  no  choice  but  to  return.  The  second  attempt 
was  more  disastrous.  In  a  garden  outside  the  city  on  the 
seashore,  he  constructed,  Avith  the  help  of  the  gardener,  a 
Spaniard,  a  hiding-place,  to  which  he  brought,  one  by  one, 
fourteen  of  his  fellow-captives,  keeping  them  there  in  secrecy 
for  several  months,  and  supplying  them  with  food  through  a 
renegade  known  as  El  Dorador,  "  the  Gilder."  How  he,  a 
captive  himself,  contrived  to  do  all  this,  is  one  of  the  mysteries 
of  the  story.  Wild  as  the  project  may  appear,  it  was  very 
nearly  successful.     The  vessel  procured  by  Rodrigo  made  its 


CER  VA  NTES.  XX  vii 

appearance  off  the  coast,  and  under  cover  of  night  was  i)ro- 
ceeding  to  take  off  the  refugees,  when  the  crew  were  ahirined 
by  a  passing  fishing  boat,  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  On  re- 
newing the  attempt  shortly  afterwards,  they,  or  a  portion  of 
them  at  least,  were  taken  prisoners,  and  just  as  the  poor  fel- 
lows in  the  garden  were  exulting  in  the  thought  that  in  a  few 
moments  more  freedom  would  be  within  their  grasp,  they 
found  themselves  surrounded  by  Turkish  troops,  horse  and 
foot.  The  Dorador  had  revealed  the  whole  scene  to  the  Dey 
Hassan. 

When  Cervantes  saw  what  had  befallen  them,  he  charged 
his  companions  to  lay  all  the  blame  upon  him,  and  as  they 
were  being  bound  he  declared  aloud  that  the  whole  plot  was 
of  his  contriving,  and  tliat  nobody  else  had  any  share  in  it. 
Brought  before  the  Dey,  he  said  the  same.  He  was  threatened 
with  impalement  and  with  torture  ;  and  as  cutting  off  ears  and 
noses  were  playful  freaks  with  the  Algerines,  it  may  be  con- 
ceived what  their  tortures  were  like  ;  but  nothing  could  make 
him  swerve  from  his  original  statement  that  he  and  he  alone 
was  responsible.  The  upshot  was  that  the  unhappy  gardener 
was  hanged  by  his  master,  and  the  prisoners  taken  possession 
of  by  the  Dey,  who,  however,  afterwards  restored  most  of  them 
to  their  masters,  but  kept  Cervantes,  paying  Dali  Mami  500 
crowns  for  him.  He  felt,  no  doubt,  that  a  man  of  such  re- 
source, enegy,  and  daring,  was  too  dangerous  a  piece  of  prop- 
erty to  be  left  in  private  hands;  and  he  had  him  heavily 
ironed  and  lodged  in  his  own  prison.  If  he  thought  that  by 
these  means  he  could  break  the  spirit  or  shake  the  resolution 
of  his  prisoner,  he  was  soon  undeceived,  for  Cervantes  con- 
trived before  long  to  despatch  a  letter  to  the  Governor  of  Oran, 
entreating  him  to  send  him  some  one  that  could  be  trusted,  to 
enable  him  and  three  other  gentlemen,  fellow-captives  of  his, 
to  make  their  escape  ;  intending  evidently  to  renew  his  first 
attempt  with  a  more  trustworthy  guide.  Unfortunately  the 
Moor  who  carried  the  letter  was  stopped  just  outside  Oran, 
and  the  letter  being  found  upon  him,  he  was  sent  back  to 
Algiers,  where  by  the  order  of  the  Dey  he  was  promptly  im- 
paled as  a  warning  to  others,  while  Cervantes  was  condemned 
to  receive  two  thousand  blows  of  the  stick,  a  number  which 
most  likely  would  have  deprived  the  world  of  "  Don  Quixote," 
had  not  some  persons,  who  they  were  we  know  not,  interceded 
on  his  behalf. 


xxvm  INTRODUCTION. 

After  this  he  seems  to  have  been  kept  in  still  closer 
confinement  than  before,  for  nearly  two  years  passed  be- 
fore he  made  another  attempt.  This  time  his  plan  was  to  pur- 
chase, by  the  aid  of  a  Spanish  renegade  and  two  Valencian 
merchants,  resident  in  Algiers,  an  armed  vessel  in  which  he 
and  about  sixty  of  the  leading  captives  were  to  make  their  es- 
cape; but  just  as  they  were  about  to  })ut  it  into  execution,  one 
Doctor  Juan  Blanco  de  Paz,  an  ecclesiastic  and  a  compatriot, 
informed  the  Dey  of  the  plot.  The  Dorador,  Avho  had  be- 
trayed him  on  the  former  occasion,  was  a  poor  creature,  influ- 
enced probably  by  fear  of  the  consequences,  l)ut  Blanco  de 
Paz  was  a  scoundrel  of  deeper  dye.  Cervantes  by  force  of 
character,  by  his  self-devotion,  by  his  untiring  energy  and  his 
exertions  to  lighten  the  lot  of  his  companions  in  misery,  had 
endeared  himself  to  all,  and  become  the  leading  spirit  in  the 
captive  colony,  and,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  jealousy  of  his 
influence  and  the  esteem  in  which  he  was  held,  moved  this  man 
to  compass  his  destruction  by  a  cruel  death.  The  merchants, 
finding  that  the  Dey  knew  all,  and  fearing  that  Cervantes 
under  torture  might  make  disclosures  that  would  imperil  their 
own  lives,  tried  to  persuade  him  to  slip  away  on  board  a  vessel 
that  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  for  Spain  ;  but  he  told  them 
they  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  no  tortures  would  make  him  com- 
promise anybody,  and  he  went  at  once  and  gave  himself  up  to 
the  Dey. 

As  before,  the  Dey  tried  to  force  him  to  name  his  accom- 
plices. Everything  was  made  ready  for  his  immediate  execu- 
tion ;  the  halter  was  put  round  his  neck  and  his  hands  tied 
behind  him,  but  all  that  could  be  got  from  him  was  that  lie 
himself,  with  the  help  of  four  gentlemen  who  had  since  left 
Algiers,  had  arranged  the  whole,  and  that  the  sixty  who  were 
to  accompany  him  were  not  to  know  anything  of  it  until  the 
last  moment.  Finding  he  could  make  nothing  of  him,  the 
Dey  sent  him  back  to  prison  more  heavily  ironed  than  before. 

But  bold  as  these  projects  were,  they  were  surpassed  in  dar- 
ing by  a  plot  to  bring  about  a  revolt  of  all  the  Christians  in 
Algiers,  twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand  in  number,  overpower 
the  Turks,  and  seize  the  city.  Of  the  details  of  his  plan  we 
know  nothing  ;  all  we  know  is  that  at  least  two  of  those  in 
his  confidence  believed  it  woidd  have  been  successful  had  it  not 
been  for  the  treachery  of  some  persons  in  the  secret ;  and  cer- 
tain it  is  that  the  Dey  Hassan  stood  in  awe  of  Cervantes,  and 


CERVANTES.  xxix 

used  to  say  that  so  long  as  he  kept  tight  hokl  of  the  crippknl 
Spaniard,  his  captives,  his  ships,  and  his  city  were  safe.  What 
Avas  it,  then,  that  made  him  hokl  his  hand  in  his  paroxysms  of 
rage  ?  When  it  was  so  easy  to  relieve  himself  of  all  the  trouble 
and  anxiety  his  prisoner  caused  him,  what  was  it  that  restrained 
him?  It  may  be  said  it  was  the  admiration  he  felt  at  the  noble 
bearing,  dauntless  courage,  and  self-devotion  of  the  man,  that 
made  him  merciful.  But  is  it  likely  that  the  fiend  Haedo  and 
Cervantes  describe,  who  hanged,  impaled,  and  cut  off  ears  every 
day,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  doing  it — -who  most  likely  had, 
like  his  friend  the  Arnaut  Mami,  '<  a  house  filled  with  noseless 
Christians"  —  would  have  been  influenced  by  any  such  feel- 
ing ?  There  are,  we  know,  men  who  seem  to  bear  a  charmed 
life  among  savages,  and  to  exercise  some  mysterious  power 
over  the  savage  mind ;  but  the  Dey  Hassan  was  no  savage ; 
he  was  worse.  With  all  respect  for  the  Haedos,  uncle  and 
nephew,  and  their  chief  informant  Doctor  de  Sosa,  it  woidd 
be  hard  to  avoid  a  suspicion  that  they  had  exaggerated,  were 
it  not  that  the  story  they  tell  is  confirmed  in  every  particular 
by  a  formally  attested  document  discovered  in  1808  by  Cean 
Bermudez,  acting  on  a  suggestion  of  Navarrete's,  in  the 
Archivo  General  de  Indias  at  Seville. 

The  poverty-stricken  Cervantes  family  had  been  all  this 
time  trying  once  more  to  raise  the  ransom  money,  and  at  last 
a  sum  of  three  hundred  ducats  was  got  together  and  intrusted 
to  the  Redemptorist  Father  Juan  Gil,  who  was  about  to  sail 
for  Algiers.  The  Dey,  however,  demanded  more  than  double 
the  sum  offered,  and  as  his  term  of  office  had  expired  and  he 
was  about  to  sail  for  Constantinople,  taking  all  his  slaves  with 
him,  the  case  of  Cervantes  was  critical.  He  was  already  on 
board  heavily  ironed,  when  the  Dey  at  length  agreed  to  reduce 
his  demand  by  one-half,  and  Father  Gil  by  borrowing  was  able 
to  make  up  the  amount,  and  on  September  19,  1580,  after  a 
captivity  of  five  years  all  but  a  week,  Cervantes  was  at  last 
set  free.  Before  long  he  discovered  that  Blanco  de  Paz,  who 
claimed  to  be  an  officer  of  the  Inquisition,  was  now  concocting 
on  false  evidence  a  charge  of  misconduct  to  be  brought  against 
him  on  his  return  to  Spain.  To  checkmate  him  Cervantes 
drew  up  a  series  of  twenty-five  questions,  covering  the  whole 
period  of  his  captivity,  upon  which  he  requested  Father  Gil 
to  take  the  depositions  of  credible  witnesses  before  a  notary. 
Eleven  witnesses  taken  from  among  the  principal  captives  in 


XXX  INTRODUCTION. 

Algiers  deposed  to  all  tlie  facts  above  stated  (except  of  course 
the  intended  seizure  of  the  city,  which  was  too  compromising  a 
matter  to  be  referred  to),  and  to  a  great  deal  more  besides. 
There  is  something  touching  in  the  admiration,  love,  and 
gratitude  we  see  struggling  to  find  expression  in  the  formal 
language  of  the  notary,  as  they  testify  one  after  another  to 
the  good  deeds  of  Cervantes,  how  he  comforted  and  helped  the 
weak-hearted,  how  he  kept  up  their  drooping  courage,  how  he 
shared  his  poor  purse  with  this  deponent,  and  how  "  in  him 
this  deponent  found  father  and  mother." 

On  his  return  to  Spain  he  found  his  old  regiment  about  to 
march  for  Portugal  to  support  Philip's  claim  to  the  crown,  and 
utterly  penniless  now,  had  no  choice  but  to  rejoin  it.  He  was 
in  the  expeditions  to  the  Azores  in  1582  and  the  following 
year,  and  on  the  conclusion  of  the  war  returned  to  Spain  in 
the  autumn  of  1583,  bringing  with  him  the  manuscript  of  his 
pastoral  romance,  the  "  Galatea,"  and  probably  also,  to  judge 
by  internal  evidence,  that  of  the  first  portion  of  ''  Persiles  and 
Sigismunda."  He  also  brought  back  with  him,  his  biogra- 
phers assert,  an  infant  daughter,  the  offspring  of  an  amour,  as 
some  of  them  with  great  circumstantiality  inform  us,  with  a 
Lisbon  lady  of  noble  birth,  whose  name,  however,  as  well  as 
that  of  the  street  she  lived  in,  they  omit  to  mention.  The  sole 
foundation  for  all  this  is  that  in  1605  there  certainly  was  liv- 
ing in  the  family  of  Cervantes  a  Dona  Isabel  de  Saavedra, 
who  is  described  in  an  official  document  as  his  natural  daughter, 
and  then  twenty  years  of  age.  This  is  all  we  know  about  her, 
unless  she  is  to  be  identified  with  the  sister  Isabel  who  in  1614 
took  the  veil  in  the  convent  in  which  he  himself  was  after- 
wards buried. 

With  his  crippled  left  hand  promotion  in  the  army  was 
hopeless,  now  that  Don  John  was  dead  and  he  had  no  one  to 
press  his  claims  and  services,  and  for  a  man  drawing  on  to 
forty  life  in  the  ranks  was  a  dismal  prospect ;  he  had  already 
a  certain  reputation  as  a  poet ;  Luis  Galvez  de  Montalvo  had 
mentioned  him  as  a  distinguished  one  in  the  "  Pastor  de 
Pilida "  in  1582,  and  we  know  from  Doctor  de  Sosa,  one  of 
the  witnesses  examined  at  Algiers,  that  he  used  to  beguile  his 
imprisonment  with  poetry  ;  he  made  up  his  mind,  therefore,  to 
cast  his  lot  with  literature,  and  for  a  first  venture  committed  his 
"  Galatea"  to  the  press.  It  was  published,  as  Salva  y  Mallen 
shows  conclusively,  at  Alcala,  his   own  birthplace,  in  1585, 


CERVANTES.  xxxi 

not  at  Madrid  in  1584  as  liis  biographers  and  bibliographers 
all  say,  and  no  doubt  helped  to  make  his  name  more  widely 
known,  but  certainly  did  not  do  him  much  good  in  any  other 
way. 

While  it  was  going  through  the  press,  he  married  Doha  Ca- 
talina  de  Palacios  Salazar  y  Vozmediano,  a  lady  of  Esquivias 
near  Madrid,  and  apparently  a  friend  of  the  family,  wlio 
brought  him  a  fortune  which  may  possibly  have  served  to  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door,  but  if  so,  that  was  all.  The  drama 
had  by  this  time  outgrown  market-place  stages  and  strolling 
companies,  and  with  his  old  love  for  it  he  naturally  turned  to 
it  for  a  congenial  employment.  In  about  three  years  he  wrote 
twenty  or  thirty  plays,  which  he  tells  us  were  performed  with- 
out any  throwing  of  cucumbers  or  other  missiles,  and  ran  their 
course  without  any  hisses,  outcries,  or  disturbance.  In  other 
words,  his  plays  Avere  not  bad  enough  to  be  hissed  off  the 
stage,  but  not  good  enough  to  hold  their  own  upon  it.  Only 
two  of  them  have  been  preserved,  but  as  they  happen  to  be 
two  of  the  seven  or  eight  he  mentions  with  complacency,  we 
may  assume  they  are  favorable  specimens,  and  no  one  who 
reads  the  '■'■  Kumancia "  and  the  "  Trato  de  Argel "  will  feel 
any  surprise  that  they  failed  as  acting  dramas.  Whatever 
merits  they  may  have,  whatever  occasional  power  they  may 
show,  they  are,  as  regards  construction,  incurably  clumsy. 
How  completely  they  failed  is  manifest  from  the  fact  that 
with  all  his  sanguine  temperament  and  indomitable  persever- 
ance he  was  unable  to  maintain  the  struggle  to  gain  a  liveli- 
hood as  a  dramatist  for  more  than  three  years ;  nor  was  the 
rising  popularity  of  Lope  the  cause,  as  is  often  said,  notwith- 
standing his  own  words  to  the  contrary.  When  Lope  began 
to  write  for  the  stage  is  uncertain,  but  it  was  certainly  after 
Cervantes  went  to  Seville. 

This,  according  to  Navarrete,  was  in  1588,  but  the  "  Nuevos 
Documentos "  published  by  Don  Jose  Asensio  y  Toledo  in 
1864  show  that  it  must  have  been  early  in  1587.  His  first 
employment  seems  to  have  been  under  Diego  de  Valdivia,  a 
judge  of  the  Audiencia  Real,  but  at  the  beginning  of  1588  he 
was  appointed  one  of  four  deputy  purveyors  under  Antonio  de 
Guevara,  purveyor-general  to  that  "  fleet  of  the  Indies  "  known 
to  history  as  the  Invincible  Armada.  It  was  no  doubt  an 
irksome  and  ill-paid  office,  for  in  1590  he  addressed  a  memo- 
rial to  the  King,  setting  forth  his  services  and  petitioning  for 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION. 

an  appointment  to  one  of  three  or  four  posts  then  vacant  in 
the  Spanish  possessions  across  the  Atlantic,  an  application 
which,  fortunately  for  the  world,  was  "  referred,"  it  would 
seem,  to  some  official  in  the  Indies  Office  at  Seville,  and  being- 
shelved,  so  remained  until  it  was  discovered  among  the  docu- 
ments brought  to  light  by  Cean  Bermudez. 

Among  the  "  Nuevos  Documentos  "  printed  by  Seiior  Asensio 
y  Toledo  is  one  dated  1592,  and  curiously  characteristic  of 
Cervantes.  It  is  an  agreement  with  one  Kodrigo  Osorio,  a 
manager,  who  was  to  accept  six  comedies  at  fifty  ducats  (about 
6/.)  apiece,  not  to  be  paid  in  any  case  unless  it  appeared  on 
representation  that  the  said  comedy  was  one  of  the  best  that 
had  ever  been  represented  in  Spain.  The  test  does  not  seem 
to  have  been  ever  applied ;  perhaps  it  was  sufficiently  apparent 
to  Rodrigo  Osorio  that  the  comedies  were  not  among  the  best 
that  had  ever  been  represented.  Among  the  correspondence  of 
Cervantes  there  might  have  been  found,  no  doubt,  more  than 
one  letter  like  that  we  see  in  the  "  Rake's  Progress,"  "  Sir,  I 
have  read  your  play,  and  it  will  not  doo." 

He  was  more  successful  in  a  literary  contest  at  Saragos\sa  in 
1595  in  honor  of  the  canonization  of  St.  Jacinto,  when  his 
composition  won  the  first  prize,  three  silver  spoons.  The  year 
before  this  he  had  been  appointed  a  collector  of  revenues  for 
the  kingdom  of  Granada,  a  better  post  probably  than  his  first, 
but  certainly  a  more  responsible  one,  as  he  found  in  the  end  to 
his  cost.  In  order  to  remit  the  money  he  had  collected  more 
conveniently  to  the  treasury,  he  intrusted  it  to  a  merchant, 
who  failed  and  absconded;  and  as  the  bankrupt's  assets  were 
insufficient  to  cover  the  whole,  he  was  sent  to  prison  at  Seville 
in  September  1597.  The  balance  against  him,  however,  was 
a  small  one,  about  26^.,  and  on  giving  security  for  it  he  was 
released  at  the  end  of  the  year. 

It  was  as  he  journeyed  from  town  to  town  collecting  the 
king's  taxes,  that  he  noted  down  those  bits  of  inn  aiid  wayside  life 
and  character  that  abound  in  the  pages  of  "  Don  Quixote :  " 
the  Benedictine  monks  wiiii  spectacles  and  simshades,  mounted 
on  their  tall  mules ;  the  strollers  in  costume  bound  for  the  next 
village ;  the  barber  with  his  basin  on  his  head,  on  his  way  to 
bleed  a  patient ;  the  recruit  with  his  breeches  in  his  bundle, 
tramping  along  the  road  singing ;  the  reapers  gathered  in  the 
venta  gateway  listening  to  "  Felixmarte  de  Hircania  "  read  out 
to  them ;  and  those  little  Hogarthian  touches  that  lie  so  well 


CERVANTES.  xxxiii 

knew  how  to  bring  in,  tlie  ox-tail  hanging  np  witli  the  land- 
lord's comb  stuck  in  it,  the  wine-skins  at  the  bed-head,  and 
those  notable  examples  of  hostelry  art,  Helen  going  oft"  in 
high  spirits  on  Paris's  arm,  and  Dido  on  the  tower  dro})phig 
tears  as  big  as  walnuts.  Nay,  it  may  well  be  that  on  those 
journeys  into  remote  regions  he  came  across  now  and  then  a 
specimen  of  the  pauper  gentleman,  with  his  lean  hack  and  his 
greyhound  and  his  books  of  chivalry,  dreaming  away  his  life 
in  happy  ignorance  that  the  world  had  changed  since  his 
great-grandfather's  old  helmet  was  new.  But  it  was  in  Seville 
that  he  found  out  his  true  vocation,  though  he  himself  would 
not  by  any  means  have  admitted  it  to  be  so.  It  was  there,  in 
the  Triana,  that  he  was  hrst  tempted  to  try  his  hand  at  draw- 
ing from  life,  and  first  brought  his  humor  into  play  in  the 
exquisite  little  sketch  of  "  Rinconete  y  Cortadillo,"  the  germ, 
in  more  ways  than  one,  of  "  Don  Quixote." 

Where  and  when  that  was  written,  we  cannot  tell.  After 
his  imprisonment  all  trace  of  Cervantes  in  his  official  capacity 
disappears,  from  Avhich  it  may  be  inferred  that  he  was  not 
reinstated.  That  he  was  still  in  Seville  in  November  1598 
appears  from  a  satirical  sonnet  of  his  on  the  elaborate  cata- 
fahpie  erected  to  testify  the  grief  of  the  city  at  the  death  of 
Philip  II.,  but  from  this  up  to  1603  we  have  no  clew  to  his 
movements.  The  words  in  the  preface  to  the  Pirst  Part  of 
"  Don  Quixote  "  are  generally  held  to  be  conclusive  that  he  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  the  book,  and  wrote  the  beginning  of  it  at 
least,  in  a  prison,  and  that  he  may  have  done  so  is  extremely 
likely.  At  the  same  time  it  should  be  borne  in  mind  that  they 
contain  no  assertion  to  that  effect,  and  may  mean  nothing 
more  than  that  this  brain-child  of  his  was  begotten  under  cir- 
cumstances as  depressing  as  prison  life.  If  we  accept  them 
literally,  the  prison  may  very  well  have  been  that  in  which  he 
was  confined  for  nearly  three  months  at  Seville. 

The  story  of  his  having  been  imprisoned  afterwards  at  Ar- 
gamasilla  de  Alba  rests  entirely  on  local  tradition.  That 
Argamasilla  is  Don  Quixote's  village  does  not  admit  of  a  doubt. 
Even  if  Cervantes  himself  had  not  owned  it  by  making  the 
Academicians  of  Argamasilla  write  verses  in  honor  of  Don 
Quixote,  there  is  no  other  town  or  village  in  La  Mancha,  ex- 
cept perhaps  its  near  neighbor  Tomelloso,  the  relative  position 
of  which  to  the  field  of  Montiel,  the  high  road  to  Seville,  Puerto 
Lapice,  and  the  Sierra  Moreua,  agrees  with  the  narrative ;  and 

Vol.'  I,  -  c 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION. 

we  know  by  Quevedo's  burlesque  ballad  on  Don  Quixote's  Testa- 
ment that  in  1608  it  was  already  famous  as  Don  Quixote's  town. 
Also  that  Cervantes  had  a  grudge  of  some  kind  against  the 
town  seems  likely  from  his  having  "  no  desire  to  call  its  name 
to  mind,"  and  from  the  banter  about  the  Academicians.  It 
would  be  luicritical  to  reject  the  story  absolutely  because  it 
depends  on  local  tradition,  at  the  same  time  it  needs  very  little 
insight  into  mythology  to  see  how  easily  the  legend  might  have 
grown  up  under  the  circumstances. 

The  cause  of  the  imprisonment  is  variously  stated.  It  is 
attributed  to  a  dispute  about  tithes  due  to  the  Priory  of  St. 
John  which  Cervantes  had  to  collect,  to  a  squabble  about 
water  rights,  to  "  a  stinging  jest "  of  his,  to  a  love  affair  with 
the  daughter  of  a  hidalgo,  whose  portrait,  Avith  that  of  his 
daughter,  hangs  in  the  village  church,  and  who  is  conjectured 
from  the  inscription  upon  it  to  have  been  the  original  of  Don 
Quixote.  But  whatever  the  cause,  the  Argamasillans  are  all 
agreed  that  the  prison  was  the  arched  cellar  under  the  Casa  de 
Medrano,  and  the  late  J.  E.  Hartzenbusch  was  so  far  im- 
pressed by  the  tradition  that  he  had  two  editions  of  "  Don 
Quixote  "  printed  there,  the  charming  little  Elzevir  edited  by 
him  in  1863,  and  the  four  volumes  containing  the  novel  in  the 
twelve-volume  edition  of  Cervantes'  works  completed  in  1865. 

The  books  mentioned  in  Chap.  vi.  (e.g.,  the  "Pastor  de 
Iberia,"  printed  in  1591)  and  the  adventure  of  the  dead  body 
in  Chap,  xx.,  which  is  obviously  based  upon  an  actual  occur- 
rence that  made  some  noise  in  the  South  of  Spain  about  the 
year  1593,  limit  the  time  within  which  the  First  Part  can 
have  been  written,  and  it  was  licensed  for  the  press  in  Sep- 
tember 1604.  But  it  is  plain  the  book  had  circulated  in  manu- 
script to  some  extent  before  this,  for  in  the  "  Picara  Justina," 
which  was  licensed  in  August  1601,  there  are  some  verses  in 
which  Justina  speaks  of  herself  as  more  famous  than  Don 
Quixote,  Celestina,  Lazarillo,  or  Guzman  de  Alfarache,  so  that 
more  than  four  months  before  it  had  been  })rinted  we  have 
"  Don  Quixote  "  ranked  with  the  three  most  famous  fictions  of 
Spain.  Nor  is  this  all.  In  a  letter  which  is  extant,  dated 
August  1604,  Lope  de  Vega  says  that  of  the  rising  poets 
''  there  is  not  one  so  bad  as  Cervantes  or  so  silly  as  to  ivrite  in 
praise  of '  Doti  Quixote  ;  '  "  and  in  another  passage  that  satire 
is  "  as  odious  to  him  as  his  comedies  are  to  Cervantes  "  —  evi- 
dently alluding  to  the  dramatic  criticism  in  Chap,  xlviii. 


CER  VANTES.  xxxv 

There  is  a  tradition  that  Cervantes  read  some  portions  of 
his  work  to  a  select  audience  at  the  Duke  of  Bejar's,  which 
may  have  heljoed  to  make  the  book  known  ;  but  the  obvious 
conclusion  is  that  the  First  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  lay  on  his 
hands  some  time  before  he  could  find  a  publisher  bold  enough 
to  undertake  a  venture  of  so  novel  a  character ;  and  so  little 
faith  in  it  had  Francisco  Kobles  of  Madrid,  to  whom  at  last 
he  sold  it,  that  he  did  not  care  to  incur  the  expense  of  secur- 
ing the  copyright  for  Aragon  or  Portugal,  contenting  himself 
with  that  for  Castile.  The  printing  Avas  finished  in  December, 
and  the  book  came  out  with  the  new  year,  1605.  It  is  often 
said  that  "  Don  Quixote "  was  at  first  received  coldly.  The 
facts  show  just  the  contrary.  No  sooner  was  it  in  the  hands 
of  the  public  than  preparations  were  made  to  issue  pirated 
editions  at  Lisbon  and  Valencia,  and  to  protect  his  property 
Robles  had  to  bring  out  a  second  edition  with  the  additional 
copyrights  for  Aragon  and  Portugal,  which  he  secured  in 
February.  But  two  Lisbon  publishers  were  in  the  field  with 
editions  almost,  if  not  quite,  as  soon  as  he  was,  and  if  he  lost 
the  whole  or  a  good  part  of  his  royalties  on  the  copies  sold  in 
Portugal,  no  one,  I  imagine,  will  feel  much  pity  for  him.  He 
was  in  time,  however,  to  secure  his  rights  in  Valencia,  where 
in  the  course  of  the  summer  an  authorized  edition  appeared, 
but  not  two,  as  Salva  y  Mallen,  Gallardo,  and  others  say, 
for  the  differences  they  rely  on  are  mere  variations  of  copies 
of  the  same  edition.  There  were,  in  fact,  five  editions  within 
the  year,  and  in  less  than  three  years'  time  these  were  ex- 
hausted. 

No  doubt  it  was  received  with  something  more  than  cold- 
ness by  certain  sections  of  the  community.  Men  of  wit,  taste, 
and  discrimination  among  the  aristocracy  gave  it  a  hearty 
welcome,  but  the  aristocracy  in  general  were  not  likely  to 
relish  a  book  that  turned  their  favorite  reading  into  ridicule 
and  laughed  at  so  many  of  their  favorite  ideas,  and  Lope's 
letter  above  quoted  expresses  beyond  a  doubt  the  feeling  of 
the  literary  class  with  a  few  exceptions.  The  dramatists  who 
gathered  round  Lope  as  their  leader  regarded  Cervantes  as 
their  common  enemy,  and  it  is  plain  that  he  was  equally  ob- 
noxious to  the  other  clique,  the  culto  poets  who  had  Gongora 
for  their  chief.  Navarrete,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  letter 
above  mentioned,  tries  hard  to  show  that  the  relations  between 
Cervantes  and  Lope  Avere   of  a  very  friendly  sort,  as  indeed 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION. 

they  were  until  "  Don  Quixote  "  was  written.  The  first  pub- 
lic praise  Lope  ever  got  was  from  Cervantes  in  the  "  Galatea  ;  " 
and  when  he  published  his  "■  Dragontea "  in  1598  Cervantes 
wrote  for  it  a  not  ungraceful  sonnet  upon  that  "  fertile  Vega 
that  every  day  offers  us  fresh  fruits ; "  and  Lope  on  his 
part  mentioned  Cervantes  in  a  complimentary  way  in  the 
"  Arcadia." 

But  Cervantes'  criticism  on  the  drama  of  the  new  school, 
though  in  truth  it  amounts  to  no  more  than  Lope  himself  ad- 
mitted in  1G02  in  the  "  ISTew  Art  of  Comedy  Writing,"  seems  to 
have  changed  all  this.  Cervantes,  indeed,  to  the  last  generously 
and  manfully  declared  his  admiration  of  Lope's  powers,  his 
unfailing  invention,  and  his  marvellous  fertility  ;  but  in  the 
preface  to  the  First  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  and  in  the  verses 
of  "  Urganda  the  Unknown,"  and  one  or  two  other  places, 
there  are,  if  we  read  between  the  lines,  sly  hits  at  Lope's 
vanities  and  affectations  that  argue  no  personal  good-will ;  and 
Lope  opeuly  sneers  at  '■'  Don  Quixote  "  and  Cervantes,  and  four- 
teen years  after  his  death  gives  him  only  a  few  lines  of  cold 
commonplace  in  the  "  Laurel  de  Apolo,"  that  seem  all  the 
colder  for  the  eulogies  of  a  host  of  nonentities  whose  names 
are  found  noAvhere  else. 

There  was  little  in  the  First  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  to  give 
offence  to  Gongora  and  his  school,  but  no  doubt  instinct  told 
them  that  the  man  who  wrote  it  was  no  friend  of  theirs  (as 
was  abundantly  proved  when  the  Second  Part  came  out),  and 
they  showed  their  animus  almost  immediately.  There  were 
great  rejoicings  at  Yalladolid  in  the  spring  of  1005,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  baptism  of  the  prince,  afterwards  Philip  IV., 
which  coincided  with  the  arrival  of  Lord  Howard  of  Effingham 
and  a  numerous  retinue  to  ratify  the  treaty  of  peace  between 
England  and  Spain,  and  the  official  "  Eelacion  "  of  the  fete  is 
believed  by  Pellicer,  Navarrete,  Hartzenbusch  and  others  to 
have  been  written  l3y  Cervantes.  Thereupon  there  appeared 
a  sonnet  in  that  bitter  trenchant  style  of  which  Gongora  was 
such  a  master,  declaring  that  the  sole  object  of  the  expenditure 
and  dis})lay  was  to  do  honor  to  the  heretics  and  Li\therans,  and 
taunting  the  authorities  with  having  employed  "  Don  Quixote, 
Sancho,  and  his  ass  "  to  write  an  account  of  their  doings.  In 
the  opinion  of  Don  Pascual  de  Gayangos  ("  Cervantes  en  Valla- 
dolid,"  Madrid,  1884)  the  connection  of  Cervantes  with  the 
"  Relaciou  "  is  doubtful,  as  it  is  also  that  Gongora,  to  whom 


CER  VA  NTES.  xxxvii 

the  sonnet  is  generally  attributed,  was  really  the  author.  All 
that  can  be  said  is  that  it  is  in  his  manner,  and  that  the  ref- 
erence to  the  heretics  and  Lutherans  is  Gongora  all  over  ;  if  not 
his  it  conies  from  his  school,  and  shows  the  feeling  existing  in 
that  quarter  towards  Cervantes  and  his  work. 

In  another  piece,  still  more  characteristic,  he  makes  an 
attack  on  Cervantes  which  has  never  been  noticed,  so  far  as  I 
am  aware.  In  the  ballad  beginning  "  Castillo  de  San  Cer- 
vantes "  he  taunts  the  old  castle  on  the  Tagus,  already  referred 
to,  with  being  no  longer  what  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  youth 
when  it  did  such  gallant  service  against  the  Moors,  compares 
its  crumbling  battlements  to  an  old  man's  teeth,  and  bids  it 
look  down  and  see  in  the  stream  below  how  age  has  changed 
it.  Depping,  who  inserts  the  ballad  in  his  "  Romancero," 
admits  that  the  idea  is  poetical,  but  confesses  he  cannot  see 
the  drift  of  the  poet,  who  seems  to  him  to  be  here  rather  a 
preacher  than  a  poet,  and  no  doubt  others  have  shared  his 
perplexity.  It  was  evidently  a  recognized  gibe  to  compare 
Cervantes  to  the  ruined  castle  that  bore  his  name ;  Avellaneda, 
in  the  scurrilous  preface  to  his  continuation  of  "  Don  (Quixote," 
jeers  at  him  in  precisely  the  same  strain  as  the  ballad,  for 
having  grown  as  old,  and  being  as  much  the  worse  for  time  as 
the  castle  of  San  Cervantes.  Gongora,  it  may  be  observed, 
had  a  special  gift  of  writing  pretty,  innocent-looking  verses 
charged  with  venom.  Who  would  take  the  lines  to  a  mountain 
brook,  beginning  — 

Whither  away,  my  little  river, 

Why  leap  down  so  eagerly, 
Thou  to  be  lost  in  the  Guadalquivir, 

The  Guadalquivir  in  the  sea? 

as  guileless  apparently  as  a  lyrical  ballad  of  Wordsworth's, 
to  be  in  reality  a  bitter  satire  on  the  unlucky  upstart,  Rodrigo 
Calderon  ? 

Another  reason  for  the  enmity  of  Gongora  and  his  clique  to 
Cervantes  may  well  have  been  that  their  arch-enemy  Quevedo 
was  a  friend  of  his.  Cervantes,  indeed,  expressly  declares  his 
esteem  for  Quevedo  as  "  the  scourge  of  silly  poets."  It  is  a 
pity  that  we  know  so  little  of  the  relations  of  these  two  men 
to  one  another.  Quevedo  nowhere  mentions  Cervantes  per- 
sonally, though  he  shows  himself  to  have  been  an  appreciative 
reader  of  "  Don  Quixote,"  and  Cervantes  only  twice  mentions 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

Queveclo.  But  each  time  there  is  something  in  his  words  that 
suggests  a  close  personal  intimacy.  Thus,  in  the  "  Viaje  del 
Parnaso,"  when  Mercury  proposes  to  wait  for  Quevedo,  Cer- 
vantes says  he  "  takes  such  short  steps  that  he  will  be  a  whole 
age  coming,"  a  remark  which  has  puzzled  a  good  many  readers. 
The  fact  is  that  Quevedo  had  clubbed  feet,  but,  so  far  from 
being  sensitive  about  the  deformity,  made  it  a  matter  of  joke. 
Cervantes,  however,  could  not  feel  sure  that  he  would  relish  a 
joke  on  the  subject  from  another,  had  he  not  been  intimate 
with  him,  and  we  know  he  held  with  the  proverb,  '*  Jests  that 
give  pain  are  no  jests." 

Quevedo  seems  to  have  been  the  only  one  among  the 
younger  men,  except  perhaps  Juan  de  Jauregui,  with  whom 
Cervantes  had  any  friendship,  and  even  among  the  men  of  his 
own  generation  his  personal  friendships  appear  to  have  been 
but  few.  And  yet,  so  far  as  the  few  glimpses  we  get  allow 
us  to  judge,  Cervantes  must  have  been  one  of  the  most  lovable 
men  this  world  has  ever  seen.  The  depositions  of  the  wit- 
nesses at  Algiers,  given  by  Navarrete,  show  his  power  of 
winning  the  love  of  his  fellow-men.  He  was  a  stanch  and 
loyal  friend  himself,  one  that  could  see  no  fault  in  a  friend, 
and  never  missed  a  chance  of  saying  a  kindly  word  when  he 
thought  he  could  give  pleasure  to  a  friend.  He  bore  his  hard 
lot  with  sweet  serenity  and  noble  patience,  facing  adversity  as 
he  had  faced  death  with  high  courage  and  dauntless  spirit ; 
and  surely  those  two  fancy  portraits  Hartzenbusch  has  prefixed 
to  his  editions  are  libellous  representations.  ^  The  features  of 
Cervantes  never  wore  that  expression  of  agonized  despair. 
We  may  rely  upon  it  that  it  was  with  the  "  smooth  untroubled 
forehead  and  bright  cheerful  eyes  "  of  his  own  half-playful 
description  that  he  met  adverse  fortune. 

In  1601  Valladolid  was  made  the  seat  of  the  Court,  and  at 
the  beginning  of  1603  Cervantes  had  been  summoned  thither 
in  connection  with  the  balance  due  by  him  to  the  Treasury, 
which  was  still  outstanding.  In  what  way  the  matter  was 
settled  we  know  not,  but  we  hear  no  more  of  it.  He  remained 
at  Valladolid,  apparently  supporting  himself  by  agencies  and 
scrivener's  work  of  some  sort;  probably  draughting  petitions 
and  drawing  up  statements  of  claims  to  be  presented  to  the 
Council,  and  the  like.  So,  at  least,  we  gather  from  the  deposi- 
tions taken  on  the  occasion  of  the  death  of  a  gentleman,  the 
victim  of  a  street  brawl,  who  had  been  carried  into  the  house 


CERVANTES.  xxxix 

in  which  he  lived.  In  these  he  himself  is  described  as  a  man 
who  wrote  and  transacted  bnsiness,  and  it  appears  that  his 
household  then  consisted  of  his  wife,  the  natural  daughter 
Isabel  de  Saavedra  already  mentioned,  his  sister  Andrea,  now 
a  widow,  her  daughter  Costanza,  a  mysterious  Magdalena  de 
Sotomayor  calling  herself  his  sister,  for  whom  his  biographers 
cannot  account,  and  a  servant-maid. 

From  another  document  it  would  seem  that  the  women  found 
employment  in  needlework  for  persons  in  attendance  on  the 
Court,  and  the  presumption  is,  therefore,  that  when  the  Court 
was  removed  once  more  to  Madrid  in  1606,  Cervantes  and  his 
household  followed  it ;  but  we  have  no  evidence  of  his  beins): 
in  Madrid  before  1609,  when  he  was  living  in  the  Calle  de  la 
Magdalena,  a  street  running  from  the  Calle  de  Atocha  to  the 
Calle  de  Toledo. 

Meanwhile  '•'■  Don  Quixote  "  had  been  growing  in  favor,  and 
its  author's  name  was  now  known  beyond  the  Pyrenees.  In 
1607  an  edition  was  printed  at  Brussels.  Robles,  the  Madrid 
publisher,  found  it  necessary  to  meet  the  demand  by  a  third 
edition,  the  seventh  in  all,  in  1608.  The  popularity  of  the 
book  in  Italy  was  such  that  a  Milan  bookseller  was  led  to  bring 
out  an  edition  in  1610  ;  and  another  was  called  for  in  Brussels 
in  1611.  It  seemed  as  if  the  hope  in  the  motto  of  Juan  de 
la  Cuesta's  device  on  his  titlepage  '  was  at  last  about  to  be 
realized ;  and  it  might  naturally  have  been  expected  that,  with 
such  proofs  before  him  that  he  had  hit  the  taste  of  the  public, 
Cervantes  would  have  at  once  set  about  redeeming  his  rather 
vague  promise  of  a  second  volume. 

But,  to  all  appearance,  nothing  was  farther  from  his 
thoughts.  He  had  still  by  him  one  or  two  short  tales  of  the 
same  vintage  as  those  he  had  inserted  in  "  Don  Quixote  "  — 
"  Rinconete  y  Cortadillo,"  above  mentioned,  the  "  Amante  Li- 
beral," a  story  like  that  of  the  "  Captive,"  inspired  by  his  own  ex- 
periences, and  perhaps  the  "  Celoso  Estremeno  "  —  and  instead 
of  continuing  the  adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  he  set  to  work 
to  write  more  of  these  "  novelas  exemplares,"  as  he  afterwards 
called  them,  with  a  view  to  making  a  book  of  them.  Possibly 
the  "  Ilustre  Pregona,"  and  the  "  Puerza  de  la  Sangre,"  were 
not  written  quite  so  late,  but  internal  evidence  shows  beyond 
a  doubt  that  the  others,  the  "  Gitanilla,"  the  '^  Espanola  In- 
glesa,"  the  "  Licenciado  Vidriero,"-  the  ''  Dos  Doncellas,"  the 

^  "  Post  tenebras  spero  lucem."      V.  fac-siniilo  cm  titlepage. 


xl  INTRODUCTION. 

"  Senora  Cornelia,"  the  "  Casamiento  Engaiioso,"  and  the 
"  Coloquio  de  los  Perros  "  were  all  written  between  1606  and 
1612. 

Wliether  the  "  Tia  Pingida,"  which  is  now  generally  in- 
clnded  in  his  novels,  is  the  work  of  Cervantes  or  not,  mnst  be 
left  an  open  question.  No  one  who  has  read  it  in  the  origi- 
nal Avould  willingly  accept  it,  but  disrelish  is  no  reason  for 
summarily  rejecting  it,  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  style 
closely  resembles  his.  There  is  nothing  in  the  objection  that 
"  listed  "  is  never  used  by  Cervantes  for  "  ^a^estra  merced," 
for  its  employment  in  the  tale  may  be  due  to  the  transcriber 
or  printer,  and  of  the  two  MSS.  in  existence  one  at  least, 
though  certainly  not  in  the  handwriting,  is  of  the  time  of 
Cervantes,  in  the  opinion  of  so  good  a  judge  as  Senor  Fer- 
nandez-Guerra  y  Orbe.  The  novels  were  published  in  the 
summer  of  1613,  with  a  dedication  to  the  Conde  de  Lemos, 
the  Maecenas  of  the  day,  and  with  one  of  those  chatty  confi- 
dential prefaces  Cervantes  was  so  fond  of.  In  this  eight 
years  and  a  half  after  the  First  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  had 
appeared,  Ave  get  the  first  hint  of  a  forthcoming  Second  Part. 
''  You  shall  see  shortly,"  he  says,  ''  the  further  exploits  of 
Don  Quixote  and  humors  of  Sancho  Panza."  His  idea  of 
"  shortly "  was  a  somewhat  elastic  one,  for,  as  we  know  by 
the  date  to  Sancho's  letter,  he  had  barely  one-half  of  the 
book  completed  that  time  twelvemonth. 

The  fact  was  that,  to  use  a  popular  phrase,  he  had  "  many 
irons  in  the  fire."  There  was  the  Second  Part  of  his  "  Gala- 
tea "  to  be  written,  his  "  Persiles  "  to  l)e  finished,  lie  had  on  his 
hands  his  '■'■  Semanas  del  Jardin  "  and  his  "  Bernardo,"  of  the 
nature  of  which  we  know  nothing,  and  there  was  the  "  Viaje 
del  Parnaso  "  to  be  got  ready  for  the  press.  The  last,  now 
made  accessible  to  English  readers  by  the  admirable  trans- 
lation of  Mr.  James  Y.  Gibson,  had  been,  in  part  at  least, 
written  about  three  years  before  the  novels  were  printed. 
Its  motive  was  the  commission  given  by  the  Conde  de  Lemos, 
on  his  appointment  as  Viceroy  of  Naples,  to  the  brothers 
Argensola  to  select  poets  to  grace  his  court,  which  suggested 
to  Cervantes  the  idea  of  a  struggle  for  Parnassus  between  the 
good  and  bad  poets ;  and  as  he  worked  it  out  he  passed  in 
review  every  poet  and  poetaster  in  Spain.  But  it  is  what  he 
says  about  himself  in  it,  and  in  the  prose  appendix  to  it,  "  the 
Adjunta,"  that  gives  it  its  chief  value  and  interest  now,  and 


CERVANTES.  xli 

from  no  other  source  do  we  learn  so  niucli  about  liiin  and  his 
writings,  and  his  own  estimate  of  them. 

But  more  than  poems,  or  i)astorals,  or  novels,  it  was  his 
dramatic  ambition  that  engrossed  his  thoughts.  The  same 
indomitable  spirit  that  kept  him  from  despair  in  the  bagnios 
of  Algiers,  and  prompted  him  to  attempt  the  escape  of  him- 
self and  his  comrades  again  and  again,  made  him  persevere 
in  spite  of  faihire  and  discouragement  in  his  efforts  to  win 
the  ear  of  the  public  as  a  dramatist.  The  temperament  of 
Cervantes  was  essentially  sanguine.  The  portrait  he  draws 
in  the  preface  to  the  novels,  with  the  aquiline  features,  chest- 
nut hair,  smooth  untroubled  forehead,  and  bright  cheerful 
eyes,  is  the  very  portrait  of  a  sanguine  man.  Nothing  that 
tiie  managers  might  say  could  persuade  him  that  the  merits 
of  his  plays  would  not  be  recognized  at  last  if  they  were  only 
given  a  fair  chance.  In  the  famous  forty -eighth  chapter  of 
'M^on  Quixote,"  in  the  Adjunta  to  the  "Viaje  del  Parnaso," 
in  the  preface  to  his  comedies,  and  other  places,  he  shows 
plainly  enough  the  ambition  that  lay  next  his  heart.  The 
old  soldier  of  the  Spanish  Salamis  was  bent  on  being  the 
iEschylus  of  Spain.  He  was  to  found  a  great  national 
drama,  based  on  the  true  principles  of  art,  that  was  to  be 
the  envy  of  all  nations ;  he  was  to  drive  from  the  stage  the 
silly,  childish  plays,  the  "  mirrors  of  nonsense  and  models  of 
folly  "  that  were  in  vogue  through  the  cupidity  of  the  man- 
agers and  short-sightedness  of  the  authors ;  he  was  to  correct 
and  educate  the  public  taste  until  it  was  ripe  for  tragedies  on 
the  model  of  the  Greek  drama — like  the '' Numancia  "  for 
instance  —  and  comedies  that  would  not  only  amuse  but  im- 
prove and  instruct.  All  this  he  was  to  do,  could  he  once  get 
a  hearing :  there  was  the  initial  difficulty. 

He  shows  plainly  enough,  too,  that  "  Don  Quixote "  and 
the  demolition  of  the  chivalry  romances  was  not  the  work 
that  lay  next  his  heart.  He  was,  indeed,  as  he  says  himself 
in  his  preface,  more  a  stepfather  than  a  father  to  ''  Don 
Quixote."  Never  was  great  work  so  neglected  by  its  author. 
That  it  was  written  carelessly,  hastily,  and  by  fits  and  starts, 
was  not  always  his  fault,  but  it  seems  clear  he  never  read 
what  he  sent  to  the  press.  He  knew  how  the  printers  had 
Idundered,  Init  he  never  took  the  trouble  to  correct  them 
when  the  third  edition  was  in  progress,  as  a  man  who  really 
cared  for  the  child  of  his  brain  would  have  done.    He  appears 


xlii  INTRODUCTION. 

to  liave  regarded  the  book  as  little  more  than  a  mere  "■  libro 
de  entretenimiento,"  an  amusing  book,  a  thing,  as  he  says  in 
the  "  Viaje,"  "  to  divert  the  melancholy  moody  heart  at  any 
time  or  season."  No  doubt  he  had  an  affection  for  his  hero, 
and  was  very  proud  of  Sancho  Panza.  It  would  have  been 
strange  indeed  if  he  had  not  been  proud  of  the  mosf  humor- 
ous creation  in  all  fiction.  He  was  proud,  too,  of  the  popu- 
larity and  success  of  the  book,  and  beyond  measure  delightful 
is  the  naivete  with  which  he  shows  his  pride  in  a  dozen  pas- 
sages in  the  Second  Part.  But  it  was  not  the  sirccess  he 
coveted.  In  all  probability  he  would  have  given  all  the 
success  of  '■'■  Don  Quixote,"  nay,  would  have  seen  every  copy 
of  "  Don  Quixote  "  burned  in  the  Plaza  Mayor,  for  one  such 
success  as  Lope  de  Vega  was  enjoying  on  an  average  once  a 
week. 

And  so  he  went  on,  dawdling  over  '■'■  Don  Quixote,"  adding  a 
chapter  now  and  again,  and  putting  it  aside  to  turn  to  "  Per- 
siles  and  Sigismmida "  —  which,  as  we  know,  was  to  be  the 
most  entertaining  book  in  the  language,  and  the  rival  of  "  The- 
agenes  and  Chariclea "  —  or  finishing  off  one  of  his  darling 
comedies  ;  and  if  Robles  asked  when  "  Don  Quixote  "  would 
be  ready,  the  answer  no  doubt  Avas  ''  con  brevedad  " —  shortly, 
there  was  time  eiiough  for  that.  At  sixty-eight  he  was  as 
full  of  life  and  hope  and  plans  for  the  future  as  a  boy 
of  eighteen. 

Nemesis  was  coming,  however.  He  had  got  as  far  as  chap- 
ter lix.,  which  at  his  leisurely  x)ace  he  could  hardly  have 
reached  before  October  or  November  1614,  when  there  was 
put  into  his  hand  a  small  octavo  lately  printed  at  Tarragona, 
and  calling  itself  "  Second  Volume  of  the  Ingenious  Gentle- 
man Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  :  by  the  Licentiate  Alpnso 
Fernandez  de  Avellaneda  of  Tordesillas."  The  last  half  of 
chapter  lix.  and  most  of  the  following  chapters  of  the  Second 
Part  give  us  some  idea  of  the  effect  produced  upon  him,  and 
his  irritation  Avas  not  likely  to  be  lessened  by  the  reflection 
that  he  had  no  one  to  blame  but  himself.  Had  Avellaneda,  in 
fact,  been  content  with  merely  bringing  out  a  continuation 
to  "  Don  Quixote,"  Cervantes  would  have  had  no  reasonable 
grievance.  His  own  intentions  were  expressed  in  the  very 
vaguest  language  at  the  end  of  the  book;  nay,  in  his  last 
words,  "  forse  altri  cantera  con  miglior  plettro,"  he  seems  actu- 
ally to  invite  some  one  else  to  continue  the  work,  and  he  made 


CERVANTES.  xliii 

no  sign  until  eight  years  and  a  half  had  gone  by  ;  by  wliicli 
time  Avellaneda's  volume  was  no  doubt  written. 

In  fact  Cervantes  had  no  case,  or  a  very  bad  one,  as  far  as 
the  mere  continuation  was  concerned.  But  Avellaneda  chose 
to  write  a  preface  to  it,  full  of  such  coarse  personal  abuse  as 
only  an  ill-conditioned  man  could  pour  out.  He  taunts  Cer- 
vantes with  being  old,  with  having  lost  his  hand,  with  having 
been  in  prison,  with  being  poor,  with  being  friendless,  accuses 
him  of  envy  of  Lope's  success,  of  petulance  and  querulous- 
ness,  and  so  on ;  and  it  was  in  this  that  the  sting  lay.  Ave- 
llaneda's reason  for  this  personal  attack  is  obvious  enough. 
Whoever  he  may  have  been,  it  is  clear  that  he  was  one  of 
the  dramatists  of  Lope's  school,  for  he  had  the  impudence  to 
charge  Cervantes  with  attacking  him  as  well  as  Lope  in  his 
criticism  on  the  drama.  His  identification  has  exercised  the 
best  critics  and  baffled  all  the  ingenuity  and  research  that  has 
been  brought  to  bear  on  it.  oSTavarrete  and  Ticknor  both  in- 
cline to  the  belief  that  Cervantes  knew  who  he  was ;  but  I 
must  say  I  think  the  anger  he  shows  suggests  an  invisible 
assailant ;  it  is  like  the  irritation  of  a  man  stung  by  a  mos- 
quito in  the  dark.  Cervantes  from  certain  solecisms  of  lan- 
guage pronounces  him  to  be  an  Aragonese,  and  Pellicer,  an 
Aragonese  himself,  supports  this  view  and  believes  him,  more- 
over, to  have  been  an  ecclesiastic,  a  Dominican  probably.  It 
has  been  suggested  that  he  was  Luis  de  Aliaga,  the  King's 
confessor  ;  Andres  Perez,  the  author  of  the  "  Picara  Justina  ;  " 
Bartolome  de  Argensola,  the  poet ;  Cervantes'  old  enemy, 
Blanco  de  Paz ;  Alarcon,  the  dramatist ;  even  the  great  Lope 
himself ;  but  the  wildest  surmise  of  all  was  that  of  the  late 
Rawdon  Brown,  who  put  in  a  claim  for  the  German  scholar 
Gaspar  Scoppe,  or  Scioppius,  apparently  because  he  was  quar- 
relsome and  happened  to  be  in  tSpain  about  this  time. 

Neither  the  question  nor  the  book  would  ever  have  been 
heard  of  outside  the  circle  of  bookworms  had  Cervantes  only 
behaved  as  Aleman  did  when  his  continuation  of  ''  Guzman  de 
Alfarache  "  was  forestalled  by  Juan  Marti.  But  the  persist- 
ence and  the  vehemence  of  his  invective  sent  readers  to  the 
book  who  would  otherwise  never  have  troubled  themselves 
about  it.  In  its  own  day  it  fell  dead  from  the  press,  for  the 
second  edition  in  1615  mentioned  by  Ebei-t  is  purely  imaginary. 
But  Bias  de  Nasarre,  an  early  specimen  of  a  type  of  littera- 
teur now  common,  saw  in  Cervantes'  vituperation  a  sufficient 


xliv  INTRODUCTION. 

reason  for  taking  tlie  book  up  and  proving  it  meritorious ; 
and  this  lie  did  in  an  edition  in  1732,  in  which  he  showed  that 
it  was  on  the  whole  a  superior  work  to  the  genuine  "  Don 
Quixote."  The  originality  of  this  view  —  not  that  it  was 
original,  for  Le  Sage  had  said  much  the  same  —  so  charmed 
M.  Germond  de  Lavigne  that  he  produced  in  1853  a  French 
translation  with  a  preface  and  notes,  Avherein  he  not  only 
maintained  that  in  humor,  taste,  invention,  and  ti'uth  to  nature, 
Cervantes  w^as  surpassed  by  Avellaneda ;  but  pointed  out 
several  passages  to  prove  that  he  had  borrowed  ideas  from  a 
book  that  most  likely  did  not  exist  at  the  time,  and  that  most 
certainly  he  had  not  seen  or  heard  of.  All  this  of  course  is 
intelligible,  but  not  so  that  a  sound  Spanish  scholar  and  critic 
like  the  late  Vicente  Salva  should  have  said,  that  if  Cervantes' 
''  Don  Quixote  "  were  not  in  existence  Avellaneda's  would  be 
the  best  novel  in  the  language ;  which  (not  to  speak  of  the 
absurdity  of  putting  it  before  ''  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,"  "  Guz- 
man de  Alfarache,"  Quevedo's  "  Gran  Tacaiio,"  Isla's  <'  Fray 
Gerundio  de  Campazas  ")  is  like  saying  that  if  there  were  no 
sun,  the  moon  would  be  the  brightest  body  in  the  heavens. 
Any  merit  Avellaneda  has  is  reflected  from  Cervantes,  and  he 
is  too  dull  to  reflect  much.  "  Dull  and  dirty  "  will  always  be, 
I  imagine,  the  verdict  of  the  vast  majority  of  unprejudiced 
readers.  He  is,  at  best,  a  poor  plagiarist ;  all  he  can  do  is  to 
follow  slavishly  the  lead  given  him  by  Cervantes ;  his  only 
humor  lies  in  making  Don  Quixote  take  inns  for  castles  and 
fancy  himself  some  legendary  or  historical  personage,  and 
Sancho  mistake  words,  invert  proverbs,  and  display  his 
gluttony  ;  all  through  he  shows  a  proclivity  to  coarseness  and 
dirt,  and  he  has  contrived  to  introduce  two  tales  filthier  than 
anything  by  the  sixteenth  century  novellicri  and  without  their 
sprightliness ;  tales  that  even  Le  Sage  and  M.  de  Lavigne  did 
not  dare  to  reproduce  as  they  found  them. 

But  whatever  Avellaneda  and  his  book  may  be,  we  must  not 
forget  the  debt  we  owe  them.  But  for  them,  there  can  be  no 
doubt,  "  Don  Quixote  "  would  have  come  to  us  a  mere  torso 
instead  of  a  complete  work.  Even  if  Cervantes  had  finished 
the  volume  he  had  in  hand,  most  assuredly  he  would  have  left 
off  with  a  promise  of  a  Third  Part,  giving  the  further  advent- 
ui'es  of  Don  Quixote  and  humors  of  Sancho  Panza  as  shep- 
herds. It  is  plain  that  he  had  at  one  time  an  intention  of 
dealing  with  the  pastoral  romances  as  he  had  dealt  with  the 


CERVANTES,  xlv 

books  of  chivalry,  and  Ijut  for  Avellaneda  he  wouhl  liave  tried 
to  cany  it  out.  But  it  is  more  likely  that,  with  his  plans,  and 
projects,  and  hopefulness,  the  volume  would  have  remained 
unfinished  till  his  death,  and  that  we  should  have  never  nuide 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  or  gone  with 
Sancho  to  Barataria. 

From  the  moment  the  book  came  into  his  hands  he  seems  to 
have  been  haimted  by  the  fear  that  there  might  l)e  more  Ave- 
llanedas  in  the  field,  and  putting  everything  else  aside,  he  set 
himself,  to  finish  off  his  task  and  protect  Don  Quixote  in  the 
only  way  he  could,  by  killing  him.  The  conclusion  is  no 
doubt  a  hasty  and  in  some  places  clumsy  piece  of  work  —  the 
last  chapter,  indeed,  is  a  curiosity  of  slovenly  writing  —  and 
the  frequent  repetition  of  the  scoldings  administered  to  Ave- 
llaneda becomes  in  the  end  rather  wearisome ;  but  it  is,  at  any 
rate,  a  conclusion,  and  for  that  we  must  thank  Avellaneda. 

The  new  volume  was  ready  for  the  press  in  February,  Ijut 
was  not  printed  till  the  very  end  of  1615,  and  during  the  inter- 
val Cervantes  put  together  the  comedies  and  interludes  he  had 
written  within  the  last  few  years,  and,  as  he  adds  plaintively, 
found  no  demand  for  among  the  nranagers,  and  published  them 
with  a  preface,  worth  the  book  it  introduces  tenfold,  in  which 
he  gives  an  account  of  the  early  Spanish  stage,  and  of  his  own 
attempts  as  a  dramatist.  As  for  the  interludes  (eiitrenieses) 
they  are  mere  farcical  scenes  without  any  pretence  to  a  plot, 
but  not  without  a  certain  amount  of  life  and  humor.  With 
regard  to  the  comedies,  the  unanimity  of  opinion  is  renmrkable. 
Every  one  seems  to  approach  them  with  the  hope  of  finding 
them  not  altogether  unworthy  of  Cervantes,  not  altogether  the 
poor  productions  the  critics  have  pronounced  them,  and  every 
reader  is  compelled  in  the  end  reluctantly  to  give  them  up,  and 
own,  in  the  words  of  jNI.  Emile  Chasles,  that  "  on  se  croirait  a 
mille  lieues  du  bon  sens  viril  qui  eclatera  dans  '  Don  Quichotte.'  " 
Nothing,  perhaps,  gives  a  better  idea  of  their  character  and 
(piality  than  that  Bias  de  Nasarre,  who  published  the  second 
edition  in  1741),  should  have,  in  perfect  seriousness,  advanced 
the  theory  that  Cervantes  wrote  them  with  an  object  somewhat 
similar  to  that  of  "  Don  Quixote,"  in  fact  as  burlesques  upon 
the  silly  senseless  plays  of  the  day ;  and  indeed  had  the 
"  Rufian  Dichoso  "  been  written  forty  years  later  there  would 
be  nothing  prima  facie  absurd  in  supposing  it  a  caricature  of 
Calderon's  mystic  devotional  dramas.     It  is  needless  to  say 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION. 

they  were  put  forward  by  Cervantes  in  all  good  faith  and  full 
confidence  in  their  merits.  The  reader,  however,  was  not  to 
suppose  they  were  his  last  word  or  final  effort  in  the  drama, 
for  he  had  in  hand  a  comedy  called  ''  Engaiio  a  los  ojos,"  about 
which,  if  he  mistook  not,  there  would  be  no  question. 

Of  this  dramatic  masterpiece  the  world  has  had  no  opportu- 
nity of  judging  ;  his  health  had  been  failing  for  some  timej 
and  he  died,  apparently  of  dropsy,  on  the  23d  of  April,  I6I63 
the  day  on  which  England  lost  Shakespeare,  nominally  at 
least,  for  the  English  calendar  had  not  yet  been  reformed. 

He  died  as  he  had  lived,  accepting  his  lot  bravely  and  cheer- 
fully. His  dedication  of  the  "  Persiles  and  Sigismunda  "'  to 
the  Conde  de  Lemos  is  notable  among  recorded  death-bed 
words  for  its  simple  unaffected  serenity.  He  could  wish,  he 
says,  that  the  opening  line  of  the  old  ballad,  "  One  foot  in  the 
stirrup  already,"  did  not  serve  so  aptly  to  begin  his  letter 
with  ;  they  had  given  him  the  extreme  miction  the  day  before, 
his  time  was  now  short,  his  pains  were  growing  greater,  his 
hopes  growing  less  ;  still  he  would  gladly  live  a  little  longer  to 
welcome  his  benefactor  back  to  Spain  ;  but  if  that  might  not 
be,  Heaven's  will  be  done.  And  then,  the  ruling  passion 
asserting  itself,  he  goes  on  to  talk  of  his  unfinished  works, 
"  The  Weeks  of  the  Garden,"  the  famous  "■  Bernardo,"  the 
conclusion  of  the  "  Galatea "  that  his  Excellency  liked  so 
nmch  ;  all  which  he  would  complete  should  Heaven  prolong 
his  life,  which  now  could  only  be  by  a  miracle. 

Was  it  an  unhappy  life,  that  of  Cervantes  ?  His  biogra- 
phers all  tell  us  that  it  Avas  ;  but  I  must  say  I  doubt  it.  It 
was  a  hard  life,  a  life  of  poverty,  of  incessant  struggle,  of  toil 
ill  paid,  of  disappointment,  but  Cervantes  carried  within  him- 
self the  antidote  to  all  these  evils.  His  was  not  one  of  those 
light  natures  that  rise  above  adversity  merely  by  virtixe  of 
their  own  buoyancy ;  it  was  in  the  fortitude  of  a  high  spirit 
that  he  was  proof  against  it.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  Cer- 
vantes giving  way  to  despondency  or  prostrated  by  dejection. 
As  for  poverty,  it  was  with  him  a  thing  to  be  laughed  over, 
and  the  only  sigh  he  ever  allows  to  escape  him  is  when  he 
says,  "  Happy  he  to  whom  Heaven  has  given  a  piece  of  breap 
for  which  he  is  not  bound  to  give  thanks  to  any  but  Heaven 
itself."  Add  to  all  this  his  vital  energy  and  mental  activity, 
his  restless  invention  and  sanguine  temperament,  and  there 
will  be  reason  enough  to  doubt  whether  his  could  have  been  a 


CERVANTES.  xlvii 

very  unhappy  life.  He  who  covikl  take  Cervantes'  distresses 
together  with  his  apparatus  for  enduring  them  woukl  not  make 
so  bad  a  bargain,  perhaps,  as  far  as  happiness  in  life  is  con- 
cerned. 

It  is  pleasant,  however,  to  think  that  the  sunset  was 
brighter  than  the  day  had  been,  and  that  at  the  close  of  his 
life  he  was  not  left  dependent  on  his  own  high  courage  for 
comfort  and  support.  He  had  failed  in  the  object  of  his  heart, 
but  he  had  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  if  Spain  had 
refused  his  dramas  the  world  had  welcomed  his  novel.  He 
was  still  a  poor  man ;  <'  a  soldier,  a  hidalgo,  old  and  poor," 
was  the  description  given  to  strangers  asking  who  and  what 
the  author  of  ''  Don  Quixote  "  was.  But  he  was  no  longer 
friendless,  and  he  no  longer  felt  the  pressure  of  poverty  as  he 
had  felt  it  in  the  days  of  his  obscurity.  His  good  friends,  the 
Conde  de  Lemos  and  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo,  as  he  himself 
tells  us,  had  charged  themselves  with  his  welfare,  and  the  book- 
sellers did  not  look  askance  at  his  books  now.  If  Juan  de 
Villaroel  paid  him  "  reasonably,"  as  he  admits,  for  so  unprom- 
ising a  venture  as  the  volume  of  comedies,  we  may  presume 
that  Robles  gave  him  something  substantial  for  the  novels  and 
for  the  Second  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote."  He  was  able  to  live, 
too,  in  what  was  then  a  fashionable  quarter  of  Madrid,  the 
maze  of  dull  streets  lying  between  the  Carrera  de  San  Gero- 
nimo  and  the  Calle  de  Atocha.  The  house  in  which  he  died  is 
in  the  Calle  del  Leon,  but  the  doorway,  marked  by  a  medallion, 
is  in  the  Calle  de  Francos,  now  the  Calle  de  Cervantes,  in 
which,  a  few  doors  farther  down,  the  great  Lope  lived  and  died, 
while  Quevedo  lived  a  few  paces  off  in  the  Calle  del  Nino. 

Of  his  burial-place  nothing  is  known  except  that  he  was 
buried,  in  accordance  with  his  will,  in  the  neighboring  convent 
of  Trinitarian  nuns,  of  which  it  is  supposed  his  daughter, 
Isabel  de  Saavedra,  was  an  inmate,  and  that  a  few  years  after- 
wards the  nuns  removed  to  another  convent,  carrying  their 
dead  with  them.  But  whether  the  remains  of  Cervantes  were 
included  in  the  removal  or  not  no  one  knows,  and  the  clew  to 
their  resting-place  is  jiow  lost  beyond  all  hope.  This  furnishes 
perhaps  the  least  defensible  of  the  items  in  the  charge  of 
neglect  brought  against  his  contemporaries.  In  some  of  the 
others  there  is  a  good  deal  of  exaggeration.  •  To  listen  to  most 
of  his  biographers  one  would  suppose  that  all  Spain  was  in 
league  not  only  against  the  man  but  against  his  memory,  or  at 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION. 

least  that  it  was  insensible  to  his  merits,  and  left  him  to  live 
in  misery  and  die  of  want.  To  talk  of  his  hard  life  and  un- 
worthy employments  in  Andalusia  is  absurd.  What  had  he 
done  to  distinguish  him  from  thousands  of  other  struggling 
men  earning  a  precarious  livelihood  ?  True,  he  was  a  gallant 
soldier,  who  had  been  wounded  and  had  undergone  captivity 
and  suffering  in  his  country's  cause,  but  there  were  hundreds 
of  others  in  the  same  case.  He  had  written  a  mediocre  speci- 
men of  an  insipid  class  of  romance,  and  some  plays  which 
manifestly  did  not  comply  with  the  primary  condition  of  pleas- 
ing :  were  the  playgoers  to  patronize  plays  that  did  not  amuse 
them,  because  the  author  was  to  produce  "  Don  Quixote " 
twenty  years  afterwards  ? 

The  scramble  for  copies  which,  as  we  have  seen,  followed 
immediately  on  the  appearance  of  the  book,  does  not  look  like 
general  insensibility  to  its  merits.  Ko  doubt  it  was  received 
coldly  by  some,  but  if  a  man  writes  a  book  in  ridicule  of  peri- 
wigs he  must  make  his  account  with  being  coldly  received  by 
the  periwig  wearers  and  hated  by  the  whole  tribe  of  wig-makers. 
If  Cervantes  had  the  chivalry-romance  readers,  the  sentiment- 
alists, the  dramatists,  and  the  poets  of  the  period  all  against 
him,  it  was  because  "  Don  Quixote  "  was  what  it  was  ;  and  if 
the  general  public  did  not  come  forward  to  make  him  com- 
fortable for  the  rest  of  his  days,  it  is  no  more  to  be  charged 
with  neglect  and  ingratitude  than  the  English-speaking  public 
that  did  not  pay  off  Scott's  liabilities.  It  did  the  best  it  could ; 
it  read  his  book  and  liked  it  and  bought  it,  and  encouraged  the 
bookseller  to  pay  him  Avell  for  others. 

Another  charge  is  that  his  fellow-countrymen  have  been  so 
careless  of  his  memory  that  they  have  allowed  his  portraits 
to  be  lost.  It  is  always  assumed  that  there  was  once  a  por- 
trait of  him  ])ainted  by  his  friend  Juan  de  Jauregui,  but  the 
words  on  which  the  assumption  rests  prove  nothing  of  the 
kind.  They  imply  nothing  more  than  that  Jauregui  coidd  or 
would  paint  a  portrait  of  himself  if  asked  to  do  so.  There  is 
even  less  ground  for  the  supposition  that  Pacheco  ever  painted 
or  drew  his  portrait,  unless  indeed  we  accept  as  satisfactory 
the  arguments  used  by  Don  Jose-Maria  Asensio  y  Toledo  in 
support  of  that  inserted  by  him  in  his  "  Nuevos  Documentos," 
and  reproduced  in  Sir  W.  Stirling  Maxwell's  "  Don  John  of 
Austria  "  and  Mr.  Gibson's  "  Journey  to  Parnassus."  But  in 
truth  they  amount   to   nothing  more   than  a   chain   of  mere 


CERVANTES.  xlix 

assnmptions.  It  is  an  assumption  tliat  the  manuscript  on  wliich 
the  whole  depends  is  a  tnistwortliy  document ;  an  assumption 
that  the  picture  Seiior  Asensio  has  fixed  on  is  the  one  the 
manuscript  means  ;  and  an  assumption  that  the  boatman  lie 
has  fixed  on  in  the  picture  is  the  portrait  of  Cervantes. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is,  among  others,  the  improl)al)ility 
of  Pacheco  painting  a  portrait  of  Cervantes  as  a  boatman, 
with  the  full  use  of  both  hands,  and  about  five-and-twenty 
years  of  age,  Cervantes  being  thirty-three  at  the  time  of  his 
release  at  Algiers  (which  is  supposed  to  be  the  occasion  repre- 
sented) and  at  least  fifty-four  at  the  time  the  picture  was 
painted,  if  I'acheco  was  the  painter.  It  Avill  need  a  stronger 
case  than  this  to  establish  a  vera  effigies  of  Cervantes.'  It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  remind  the  reader  that  the  Spanish 
Academy  picture  from  which  the  familiar  engraved  portrait 
is  taken  is  now  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  a  fabrication, 
based  in  all  probability  on  the  fancy  portrait  by  Kent  in 
Tonson's  "  Quixote  "  of  1738. 

It  has  been  also  made  a  reproach  to  Spain  that  she  has 
erected  no  monument  to  the  man  she  is  proudest  of  ;  no 
monument,  that  is  to  say,  worthy  of  him ;  for  the  bronze 
statue  in  the  little  garden  of  the  Plaza  de  las  Cortes,  a  fair 
work  <jf  art  no  doubt,  and  unexceptionable  had  it  been  set  up 
to  the  local  poet  in  the  market-place  of  some  provincial  town, 
is  not  worthy  of  Cervantes  or  of  Madrid.  But  what  need  has 
Cervantes  of  "  such  weak  witness  of  his  name ; ''"  or  what 
could  a  monument  do  in  his  case  except  to  testify  to  the  self- 
glorification  of  those  who  had  put  it  up  ?  SI  inonumentuiih 
qiKt'rls,  elrcu))isj)lce.  The  nearest  Ijookseller's  shop  will  show 
what  bathos  there  would  be  in  a  monument  to  the  author  of 
"  Don  Quixote." 

'  Sffior  Asensio's  case  may  be  said,  imleed,  to  break  down  in  liis  last 
assumption.  Where  Cervantes  was  from  the  end  of  15'J8  to  the  beginning 
of  1G03  we  know  not;  but  all  his  biographers  are  agreed  that  lie  did  not 
remain  in  Seville.  But  the  commission  to  i)aint  the  six  pictures,  of  which 
Senor  Asensio's  is  one,  was  only  given  to  Vazquez  and  Pacheco  in  IGOO, 
and  no  doubt  they  took  some  considerable  time  to  paint.  Cervantes, 
therefore,  could  not  have  sat  for  the  head  of  the  boatman.  In  the  face 
of  this  difficulty,  Senor  Asensio  assumes  that  Pacheco  painted  it  from  a 
portrait  previously  taken  between  1590  and  1.^1)7.  But,  granted  that 
Pacheco  might  have  made  Cervantes  nearly  thirty  years  younger  in  the 
picture,  Avhat  motive  could  he  have  had  for  representing  him  as  a  young 
man  of  five  or  six  and  twenty  in  a  sketch  made,  we  are  to  suppose,  as  a 
memorial  of  his  friend  ? 
Vol.  I,-ol 


INTRODUCTION. 


"DON    QUIXOTE" 

Nine  editions  of  the  First  Part  of  '^  Don  Quixote  "  had,  as 
we  have  seen,  already  appeared  liefore  Cervantes  died,  thirty 
thousand  copies  in  all,  according  to  his  own  estimate,  and  a 
tenth  was  printed  at  Barcelona  the  year  after  his  death.  Of 
the  Second  Part,  live  had  been  published  by  the  middle  of  the 
same  year.  So  large  a  number  naturally  supplied  the  demand 
for  some  time,  but  by  16o4  it  appears  to  have  been  exhausted ; 
and  from  that  time  down  to  the  present  day  the  stream  of  edi- 
tions has  continued  to  flow  rapidly  and  regularly.  The  trans- 
lations show  still  more  clearly  in  what  request  the  book  has 
been  from  the  very  outset.  Shelton's  seems  to  have  been  made 
as  early  as  1607  or  1608 ;  Oudin's,  the  first  French  one,  in 
1616 ;  the  first  German  in  1621,  and  Franciosini's  Italian 
version  in  1622  ;  so  that  in  seven  years  from  the  coni})letion 
of  the  work  it  had  been  translated  into  the  four  leading  lan- 
guages of  Europe.  How  translations  and  editions  of  transla- 
tions multi})lied  as  time  went  on  will  be  seen  by  a  glance  at 
the  list  given  in  the  Appendix,  necessarily  incomplete  as  it  is. 
Except  the  Bible,  in  fact,  no  book  has  been  so  widely  diffused 
as  "  Don  Quixote."  The  "  Imitatio  Christi "  may  have  been 
translated  into  as  many  different  languages,  and  perhaps 
"  Robinson  Crusoe  "  and  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  into  nearly 
as  many,  but  in  multiplicity  of  translations  and  editions  "  Don 
Quixote  "  leaves  them  all  far  behind. 

Still  more  remarkable  is  the  character  of  this  wide  diffusion. 
"  Don  Quixote  "  has  been  thoroughly  naturalized  among  people 
whose  ideas  about  knight-errantry,  if  they  had  any  at  all,  were 
of  the  vaguest,  who  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  a  book  of 
chivalry,  who  could  not  possibly  feel  the  humor  of  the  bur- 
lesque or  sympathize  with  the  author's  i)ur})0se.  Another 
ciirious  fact  is  that  this,  the  most  cosmopolitan  book  in  the 
world,  is  one  of  the  most  intensely  national.  "  Manon  Les- 
caut ''  is  not  more  thoroughly  French,  "  Tom  Jones  "  not  more 
English,  "  Rob  Roy  "  not  more  Scotch,  than  "  Don  Quixote  "  is 
Spanish,  in  character,  in  ideas,  in  sentiment,  in  local  color,  in 
everything.  What,  then,  is  the  secret  of  this  unparalleled 
popularity,  increasing  year  by  year  for  well-nigh  three  cen- 
turies ?  One  explanation,  no  doubt,  is  that  of  all  the  books  in 
the  world,   "  Don  Quixote "   is  the   most  catholic.     There  is 


"DON  Quixote:'  li 

something  in  it  for  every  sort  of  reader,  young  or  old,  sage  or 
simple,  high  or  low.  As  Cervantes  himself  says  with  a  touch 
of  pride,  "  It  is  thumbed  and  read  and  got  by  heart  by  people 
of  all  sorts ;  the  children  turn  its  leaves,  the  young  people 
read  it,  the  grown  men  understand  it,  the  old  folk  praise  it." 

But  it  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  the  ingredient  which,  more 
than  its  humor,  or  its  wisdom,  or  the  fertility  of  invention  or 
knowledge  of  human  nature  it  displays,  has  insured  its  success 
with  the  multitude,  is  the  vein  of  farce  that  runs  through  it. 
It  was  the  attack  upon  the  sheep,  the  battle  with  the  wine- 
skins, Mambrino's  helmet,  the  balsam  of  Fierabras,  Don 
Quixote  knocked  over  by  the  sails  of  the  windmill,  Sanclio 
tossed  in  the  blanket,  the  mishaps  and  misadventures  of  master 
and  man,  that  were  originally  the  great  attraction,  and  per- 
haps are  so  still  to  some  extent  with  the  majority  of  readers. 
The  bibliography  of  the  book  is  a  proof  of  this.  There  were 
ten  editions  of  the  First  Part,  but  of  the  Second,  where  the 
humor  is  throughout  much  more  akin  to  comedy  than  to  farce, 
five  only  were  printed.  It  is  plain  that  "  Don  Quixote '"'  was 
generally  regarded  at  first,  and  indeed  in  Spain  for  a  long 
time,  as  little  more  than  a  queer  droll  book,  full  of  langhable 
incidents  and  absurd  situations,  very  amusing,  but  not  entitled 
to  much  consideration  or  care.  All  the  editions  printed  in 
Spain  from  1637  to  1771,  when  the  famous  printer  Ibarra  took 
it  up,  were  mere  trade  editions,  badly  and  carelessly  printed 
on  vile  paper  and  got  up  in  the  style  of  chap-books  intended 
only  for  popular  iTse,  with,  in  most  instances,  uncouth  illustra- 
tions and  clap-trap  additions  by  the  publisher.  Those  of 
Brussels  and  Antwerp  were  better  in  every  way,  neater  and 
more  careful,  but  still  obviously  books  intended  for  a  class  of 
readers  not  disposed  to  be  critical  or  fastidious  so  long  as  they 
were  amused. 

To  England  belongs  the  credit  of  having  been  the  first 
coimtry  to  recognize  the  right  of  "Don  Quixote"  to  better 
treatment  than  this.  The  London  edition  of  17oS,  commonly 
called  Lord  Carteret's  from  having  been  suggested  by  him,  was 
not  a  mere  edition  de  I'uxe.  It  produced  "  Don  Quixote "  in 
becoming  form  as  regards  paper  and  type,  and  emliellished 
with  plates  which,  if  not  particularly  happy  as  illustrations, 
were  at  least  well  intentioned  and  well  executed,  but  it  also 
aimed  at  correctness  of  text,  a  matter  to  which  nobody  except 
the  editors  of  the  Valencia  and  Brussels  editions  had  given 


lii  INTRODUCTION. 

even  a  passing  thought ;  and  for  a  first  attempt  it  was  fairly 
successful,  for  though  some  of  its  emendations  are  inadmissi- 
ble, a  good  many  of  them  have  been  adopted  by  all  subsequent 
editors. 

The  example  set  was  soon  followed  in  the  elegant  duo- 
decimo editions  with  Coypel's  plates  published  at  the  Hague 
and  Amsterdam,  and  later  in  those  of  Ibarra  and  Sancha  in 
Spain.  But  the  most  notable  results  were  the  splendid 
edition  in  four  volumes  by  the  Spanish  Royal  Acaclemy  in 
1780,  and  the  Rev.  John  Bowie's,  printed  at  London  and 
Salisbury  in  1781.  In  the  former  a  praiseworthy  attempt  Avas 
made  to  produce  an  authoritative  text ;  but  unfortunately  the 
editors,  under  the  erroneous  impression  that  Cervantes  had 
either  himself  corrected  La  Cuesta's  1608  edition  of  the  First 
Part,  or  at  least  authorized  its  corrections,  attached  an  excessive 
importance  to  emendations  Avhich  in  reality  are  entitled  to  no 
higher  respect  than  those  of  any  other  printer.  The  distin- 
guishing feature  of  Bowie's  edition  is  the  mass  of  notes,  filling 
two  volumes  out  of  the  six.  Bowie's  industry,  zeal,  and  erudi- 
tion have  made  his  name  deservedly  venerated  by  all  students 
of  "  Don  Quixote ;  "  at  the  same  time  it  must  be  owned  that 
the  practical  value  of  his  notes  has  been  somewhat  overrated. 
What  they  ilhistrate  is  not  so  much  ''  Don  Quixote  "  as  the  anno- 
tator's  extensive  reading.  The  majority  of  them  are  intended 
to  show  the  sources  among  the  books  of  chivalry  from  which 
Cervantes  took  the  incidents  and  ideas  he  burlesqued,  and  the 
connection  is  very  often  purely  fanciful.  They  rendered  an 
important  service,  however,  in  acting  as  a  stimulus  and  fur- 
nishing a  foundation  for  other  commentaries  ;  as,  for  example, 
Pellicer's,  which,  though  it  does  not  contain  a  fiftieth  of  the 
number  of  notes,  is  fifty  times  more  valuable  for  any  purpose 
of  genuine  elucidation,  and  Clemeuciu's,  that  monument  of 
industry,  research,  and  learning,  which  has  done  more  than  all 
others  put  together  to  throw  light  upon  the  obscurities  and 
clear  away  the  difficulties  of  "  Don  Quixote." 

The  zeal  of  publishers,  editors,  and  annotators  brought  about 
a  remarkable  change  of  sentiment  with  regard  to  "  Don 
Quixote."  A  vast  number  of  its  admirers  began  to  grow 
ashamed  of  laughing  over  it.  It  became  almost  a  crime  to 
treat  it  as  a  humorous  book.  The  humor  was  not  entirely  de- 
nied, bu.t,  according  to  the  new  view,  it  Avas  rated  as  an  alto- 
gether secondary  quality,  a  mere  accessory,  nothing  more  than 


"7)07v  Quixote:  Hii 

the  stalking-horse  under  the  presentation  of  which  Cervantes 
shot  his  philosophy  or  his  satire,  or  whatever  it  was  he  meant 
to  shoot;  for  on  this  point  opinions  varied.  All  were  agreed, 
however,  that  the  object  he  aimed  at  was  not  the  books  of 
chivalry.  He  said  emphatically  in  the  preface  to  the  First 
Part  and  in  the  last  sentence  of  the  Second,  that  he  had  no 
other  object  in  view  than  to  dis(.'redit  these  books,  and  this,  to 
advanced  criticism,  made  it  clear  that  his  object  must  have 
been  something  else. 

One  theory  was  that  the  book  was  a  kind  of  allegory,  setting 
forth  the  eternal  struggle  between  the  ideal  and  the  real,  be- 
tween the  spirit  of  poetry  and  the  spirit  of  prose ;  and  per- 
haps German  philosophy  never  evolved  a  more  ungaiidy  or 
unlikely  camel  out  of  the  depths  of  its  inner  consciousness. 
Something  of  the  antagonism,  no  doubt,  is  to  be  found  in  "  Don 
Quixote,"  because  it  is  to  be  found  everywhere  in  life,  and 
Cervantes  drew  from  life.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  commu- 
nity in  which  the  never-ceasing  game  of  cross  purposes  between 
Sancho  Panza  and  Don  Quixote  would  not  be  recognized  as 
true  to  nature.  In  the  stone  age,  among  the  lake  dwellers, 
among  the  cave  men,  there  were  Don  Quixotes  and  Sancho 
Panzas ;  there  must  have  been  the  troglodyte  who  never  could 
see  the  facts  before  his  eyes,  and  the  troglodyte  who  could  see 
nothing  else.  But  to  suppose  Cervantes  deliberately  setting 
himself  to  expound  any  such  idea  in  two  stout  quarto  volumes 
is  to  suppose  something  not  only  very  unlike  the  age  in  which 
he  lived,  but  altogether  unlike  Cervantes  himself,  who  would 
have  been  the  first  to  laugh  at  an  attempt  of  the  sort  made  by 
any  one  else. 

Another  idea,  which  apparently  had  a  strange  fascination  for 
some  minds,  was  that  there  are  deep  political  meanings  lying 
hidden  under  the  drolleries  of  "  Don  Quixote."  This,  indeed, 
was  not  altogether  of  modern  growth.  If  we  believed,  what 
nobody  believes  now,  the  Buscapie  to  be  genuine,  some  such 
notion  would  seem  to  have  been  current  soon  after  the  appear- 
ance of  the  book.  At  any  rate  Defoe,  in  the  preface  to  the 
"  Serious  Eeflections  of  Eobinson  Crusoe,"  tells  us  that  though 
thousands  read  <'  Don  Quixote  "  without  any  suspicion  of  the 
fact,  "  those  who  know  the  meaning  of  it  know  it  to  be  an  em- 
blematic history  of,  and  a  just  satire  upon,  the  Duke  of  Medina 
Sidonia."  That  the  ''Duke  of  Lerma"'was  the  original  of 
"■  Don  Quixote  "  was  a  favorite  theory  with  others  who,  we  must 


liv  INTRODUCTION. 

suppose,  saw  nothing  improbable  in  the  Archbishop  of  Toledo 
making  a  lyroUge  of  the  man  that  according  to  them  had  ridi- 
ciiled  and  satirized  his  brother.  Other  suggestions  were  that 
Cervantes  meant  Charles  V.,  Philip  II.,  Ignatius  Loyola; 
while  those  who  were  not  prepared  to  go  so  far  as  to  declare 
the  whole  book  to  be  a  political  satire,  applied  their  ingenuity 
to  the  discovery  of  allusions  to  the  events  and  personages  of 
the  day  in  almost  every  incident  of  the  story.  It  became,  in 
short,  a  kind  of  pastime  with  literary  idlers  to  go  a  mare's- 
nesting  in  "  Don  Quixote,"  and  hunt  for  occult  significations 
in  the  bill  of  ass-colts  delivered  to  Sancho  Panza,  the  decision 
on  the  pack-saddle  and  basin  question,  the  names  and  arms  of 
the  chieftains  in  the  encounter  with  the  sheep,  or  wherever  the 
ordinary  reader  in  his  simplicity  flattered  himself  that  the 
author's  drift  was  unmistakable.  In  fact,  to  believe  these 
scholiasts,  Cervantes  was  the  prince  of  cryptographers,  and 
"  Don  Quixote  "  a  tissue  of  riddles  from  beginning  to  end. 

The  pursuit  has  evidently  attractions  inexplicable  to  the  un- 
initiated, but  perhaps  its  facility  may  have  something  to  do 
with  its  charm,  for  in  truth  nothing  is  easier  than  to  prove 
one's  self  wiser  than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  this  way.  All 
that  is  necessary  is  to  assert  dogmatically  that  by  A  the 
author  means  B,  and  that  when  he  says  "  black  "  he  means 
"  white."  If  some  future  commentator  chooses  to  say  that 
<'  Pickwick  "  is  an  "  emblematic  history  "  of  Lord  Melbourne  ; 
that  Jingle,  with  his  versatility,  audacity,  and  volubility,  is 
meant  for  Lord  P>rougham  ;  Sam  Weller  for  Sydney  Smith,  the 
faithful  joker  of  the  Whig  party  ;  and  INIr.  Pickwick's  mishap 
on  the  ice  for  Lord  Melbourne's  falling  through  from  insuffi- 
cient support  in  1834 ;  and  that  he  is  a  l:)lockhead  who  offers 
to  believe  otherwise ;  who  shall  say  him  nay  ?  It  will  be  im- 
possible to  confute  him,  save  by  calling  up  Charles  Dickens 
from  his  grave  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

According  to  others,  there  are  philosophical  ideas  of  a  start- 
ling kind  to  be  found  in  abundance  in  "  Don  Quixote  "  by 
those  Avho  choose  to  look  for  them,  ideas  that  show  Cervantes 
to  have  been  far  in  advance  of  his  time.  The  precise  nature 
of  these  ideas  is  in  general  rather  vaguely  intiinated  ;  though, 
to  be  sure,  in  one  instance  it  is  claimed  for  Cervantes  that  he 
anticipated  Descartes.  "  Don  Quixote,"  it  will  be  remembered, 
on  awaking  in  the  cave  of  Montesinos  was  at  first  doubtful  of 
his  own  identity,  but  on  feeling  himself  all  over  and  observing 


''DON  Quixote:'  Iv 

"  the  collected  thouglits  that  passed  through  his  mind,"  he  was 
convinced  that  he  was  himself  and  not  a  phantom,  which,  it 
has  been  urged  plausibly,  was  in  effect  a  practical  application 
of  the  Cartesian  "  Cogito,  ergo  sum."  But  for  the  most  part 
the  expositors  content  themselves  with  the  assertion  that  run- 
ning through  "  Don  Quixote  "  there  is  a  vein  of  satire  aimed 
at  the  Church,  dogma,  sacerdotalism,  and  the  Inquisition. 
This,  of  course,  wilt  at  once  strike  most  people  as  being  ex- 
tremely unlikely.  Cervantes  wrote  at  about  the  most  active 
period  of  the  Inquisition,  and  if  he  ventured  upon  satire  of 
this  sort  he  would  have  been  in  the  position  of  the  reduced 
gentlewoman  who  was  brought  down  to  selling  tarts  in  the 
street  for  a  livelihood,  and  who  used  to  say  to  herself  every 
time  she  cried  her  wares,  "  I  hope  to  goodness  nobody  hears 
me." 

There  is,  moreover,  something  very  characteristic  of  nine- 
teenth century  self-conceit  in  the  idea  that  it  was  reserved  for 
our  superior  intelligence  to  see  what  those  poor,  blind,  stupid 
officers  of  the  Inquisition  could  not  perceive.  Any  one,  how- 
ever, who,  for  instance,  compares  the  original  editions  of 
Quevedo's  "  Visions  "  with  the  authorized  Madrid  edition  will 
see  that  these  officials  were  not  so  very  blind,  but  that  on  the 
contrary  their  eyes  were  marvellously  keen  to  detect  anything 
that  had  the  slightest  tincture  of  disrespect  or  irreverence. 
Nay,  "  Don  Quixote "  itself  is  a  proof  of  their  vigilance,  for 
three  years  after  the  Second  Part  had  appeared  they  cut  out 
the  Duchess's  not  very  heterodox  remark  that  works  of  charity 
done  in  a  lukev/arm  way  are  of  no  avail.  It  may  be  said  that 
Sancho's  observations  upon  the  sham  sambenito  and  mitre  in 
chapter  Ixix.,  Part  II.,  and  Dapple's  return  home  adorned  with 
them  in  chapter  Ixxiii.,  are  meant  to  ridicule  the  Inquisition ; 
but  it  is  plain  the  Inquisition  itself  did  not  think  so,  and 
probably  it  was  as  good  a  judge  as  any  one  nowadays. 

For  one  passage  capable  of  being  tortured  into  covert 
satire  against  any  of  these  things,  there  are  ten  in  "  Don 
Quixote "  and  the  novels  that  show  —  what,  indeed,  is  suffi- 
ciently obvious  from  the  little  we  know  of  his  life  and  char- 
acter —  that  Cervantes  was  a  faithful  son  of  the  Church.  As 
to  his  having  been  in  advance  of  his  age,  the  line  he  took  up 
on  the  expulsion  of  the  Moriscoes  disposes  of  that  assertion. 
Had  he  been  the  far-seeing  philosopher  and  profound  thinker 
the  Cervantists  strive  to  make  him  out,  he  would  have  looked 


Ivi  tNTR  OD  UCTION. 

with  contempt  and  disgust  upon  an  agitation  as  stupid  and 
childish  as  ever  came  of  priestly  bigotry  acting  on  popular 
fanaticism  and  ignorance ;  and  if  not  moved  by  the  barbarovis 
cruelty  of  the  measure,  he  would  have  been  impressed  by  its 
mischievous  consequences  to  his  country,  as  all  the  best  states- 
men of  the  day  were.  No  loyal  reader  of  his  will  believe 
for  a  moment  that  his  vigorous  advocacy  of  it  was  under- 
taken against  his  convictions  and  solely  in  order  to  please 
his  patron,  the  leader  of  the  movement.  The  truth  is,  no 
doubt,  that  in  the  Archbishop's  ante-chamber  he  heard  over 
and  over  again  all  the  arguments  he  has  reproduced  in 
"  Don  Quixote "  and  in  the  novel  of  the  ''  Colloquy  of  the 
Dogs,"  and  that  his  opinions,  as  •  opinions  so  often  do,  took 
their  complexion  from  his  surroundings.  There  is  no  reason 
to  question  his  sincerity,  but  the  less  that  is  said  of  his 
philosophy  and  foresight  the  better.  He  was  a  philosopher 
in  one  and  perhaps  the  best  sense,  for  he  knew  how  to 
endure  the  ills  of  life  with  philosojihy ;  his  knowledge  of 
human  nature  was  profound,  his  observation  was  marvellous  ; 
but  life  never  seems  to  have  presented  any  mystery  to  him,  or 
suggested  any  problem  to  his  mind. 

It  does  not  require  much  study  of  the  literary  history  of  the 
time,  or  any  profound  critical  examination  of  the  work,  to 
see  that  these  elaborate  theories  and  ingenious  speculations 
are  not  really  necessary  to  explain  the  meaning  of  "  Don 
Quixote  "  or  the  purpose  of  Cervantes.  The  extraordinary 
influence  of  the  romances  of  chivalry  in  his  day  is  quite 
enough  to  account  for  the  genesis  of  the  book. 

Some  idea  of  the  prodigious  development  of  this  branch  of 
literature  in  the  sixteenth  century  may  be  obtained  from 
the  sketch  given  in  the  Appendix,  if  the  reader  bears  in 
mind  that  only  a  portion  of  the  romances  belonging  to  by 
far  the  largest  group  are  enumerated.  As  to  its  effect  upon 
the  nation,  there  is  abundant  evidence.  From  the  time  when 
the  Amadises  and  Palmerins  began  to  grow  popular  down 
to  the  very  end  of  the  century,  there  is  a  steady  stream  of 
invective,  from  men  whose  character  and  position  lend  weight 
to  their  words,  against  the-  romances  of  chivalry  and  the  infat- 
uation of  their  readers.  It  would  be  easy  to  fill  a  couple  of 
pages  with  the  complaints  that  were  made  of  the  mischief 
produced  by  the  inordinate  appetite  for  this  kind  of  reading, 
especially  among  the  upper  classes,  who,  unhappily  for  them- 


''DON    QUIXOTE.'"  Ivii 

selves  and  their  country,  had  only  too  much  time  for  such 
pursuits  under  the  rule  of  Charles  V.  and  his  successors.  As 
Pedro  Mexia,  the  chronicler  of  Charles  V.  puts  it,  there  were 
many  who  had  ])roi;ght  themselves  to  think  in  the  very  style 
of  the  books  they  read,  books  of  which  might  often  be  said, 
and  with  far  more  truth,  what  Ascham  said  of  the  "  Morte 
d' Arthur,"  that  "  the  whole  pleasure  standeth  in  two  speciall 
poyntes,  in  open  manslaughter  and  bold  bawdrye." 

Ticknor,  in  his  second  volume,  cited  some  of  the  most  nota- 
ble of  these  predecessors  of  Cervantes  ;  but  one  not  mentioned 
by  him,  or,  so  far  as  I  am  aware,  by  any  other  writer  on  the 
subject,  may  be  quoted  here  as  having  been  perhaps  the  im- 
mediate predecessor  of,  and  using  language  curiously  like  that 
in,  "  Don  Quixote."  I  mean  Fray  Juan  de  Tolosa,  who  says 
he  wrote  his  fantastically  entitled  religious  treatise,  the 
*'  Aranjuez  del  Alma  "  (Saragossa,  1589),  in  order  to  ''  drive 
out  of  our  Spain  that  dust-cloud  of  books  of  chivalries,  as  they 
call  them  (of  knaveries,  as  I  call  them),  that  blind  the  eyes  of 
all  wlro,  not  reflecting  upon  the  harm  they  are  doing  their 
souls,  give  themselves  up  to  them,  and  waste  the  best  part  of 
the  year  in  striving  to  learn  whether  Don  Belianis  of  Greece 
took  the  enchanted  castle,  or  whether  Don  Florisel  de  Niquea, 
after  all  his  battles,  celebrated  the  marriage  he  was  bent 
iipon."  Good  Fray  Juan  did  not  choose  the  right  imple- 
ment.    Eidicule  was  the  only  besom  to  sweep  away  that  dust. 

That  this  was  the  task  Cervantes  set  himself,  and  that  he 
had  ample  provocation  to  urge  him  to  it,  will  be  sufHciently 
clear  to  those  who  look  into  the  evidence ;  as  it  will  be  also 
that  it  was  not  chivalry  itself  that  he  attacked  and  swept  away. 
Of  all  the  absurdities  that,  thanks  to  poetry,  will  be  repeated  to 
the  end  of  time,  there  is  no  greater  one  than  saying  that  "  Cer- 
vantes smiled  Spain's  chivalry  away."  In  the  lirst  place  there 
was  no  chivalry  for  him  to  smile  away.  Spain's  chivalry  had 
been  dead  for  more  than  a  century.  Its  work  was  done  when 
Granada  fell,  and  as  chivalry  was  essentially  republican  in  its 
nature,  it  could  not  live  under  the  rule  that  Ferdinand  substi- 
tuted for  the  free  institutions  of  mediaeval  Spain.  What  he 
did  smile  away  was  not  chivalry  but  a  degrading  mockery  of 
it;  it  would  be  just  as  reasonable  to  say  that  England's  chiv- 
alry was  smiled  away  by  the  ridicule  showered  in  "  Punch " 
upon  the  men  in  block-tin  who  ride  in  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show. 

The  true  nature  of  the  ''  right  arm  "  and  the  ''  bright  array," 


Iviii  INTRODUCTION. 

before  which,  according  to  the  poet,  *'  the  world  gave  ground," 
and  which  Cervantes'  single  laugh  demolished,  may  be  gathered 
from  the  words  of  one  of  his  own  countrymen,  Don  Felix 
Pacheco,  as  reported  by  Captain  George  Carleton,  in  his 
"  Military  Memoirs  from  1672  to  1713."  ^  "  Before  the  ap- 
pearance in  the  world  of  that  labor  of  Cervantes,"  he  said, 
"  it  is  next  to  an  impossibility  for  a  man  to  walk  the  streets 
with  any  delight  or  Avithout  danger.  There  were  seen  so  many 
cavaliers  prancing  and  curvetting  before  the  windows  of  their 
mistresses,  that  a  stranger  would  have  imagined  the  whole 
nation  to  have  been  nothing  less  than  a  race  of  knight-errants. 
But  after  the  world  became  a  little  acquainted  with  that  nota- 
ble history,  the  man  that  was  seen  in  that  once  celebrated 
dmpery  was  pointed  at  as  a  Don  Quixote,  and  found  himself 
the  jest  of  high  and  low.  And  I  verily  believe  that  to  this, 
and  this  only,  we  OAve  that  dampness  and  poverty  of  spirit 
which  has  run  through  all  our  councils  for  a  century  past,  so 
little  agreeable  to  those  nobler  actions  of  our  famous  ances- 
tors." 

To  call  "  Don  Quixote  "  a  sad  book,  preaching  a  pessimist 
view  of   life,  argues  a  total    misconception  of   its    drift.     It 
would  be  so  if  its  moral  were  that,  in  this  world,  true  enthu- 
siasm naturally  leads  to   ridicule   and   discomfiture.     But   it 
preaches  nothing  of  the  sort;  its  moral,  so  far  as  it  can  be 
said  to  have  one,  is  that  the  spurious  enthusiasm  that  is  born 
of  vanity  and  self-conceit,  that  is  made  an  end  in  itself,  not  a 
means  to  an  end,  and  that  acts  on  mere  impulse,  regardless  of 
circumstances  and  consequences,  is  mischievous  to  its  owner, 
and  a  very  considerable  nuisance  to  the  community  at  large. 
To  those  who  cannot  distinguish  between  the  one  kind  and  the 
other,  no  doubt  ''  Don  Quixote "  is  a  sad  book ;  no  doid)t  to 
some  minds  it  is  very  sad  that  a  man  who  had  just  uttered  so 
beautifid  a  sentiment  as  that  <'  it  is  a  hard  case  to  make  slaves 
of  those  whom  God  and  Nature  made  free,"  should  be  ungrate- 
fully pelted  by  the  scoundrels  his  crazy  philanthropy  had  let 
loose  on  society ;  but  to  others  of  a  more  judicial  cast  it  will 
1)6  a  matter  of  regret  that  reckless  self-sufficient  enthusiasm 
is  not  oftener  requited  in  some  such  way  for  all  the  mischief 
it  does  in  the  world. 

'  This  book,  it  may  be  as  well  to  remind  some  readers,  is  not,  as  it  i? 
still  often  described,  one  of  Defoe's  novels,  but  the  genuine  experiences 
of  an  English  officer  in  Spain  during  the  Succession  War. 


''DON    QUIXOTE^  lix 

A  very  slight  examination  of  the  structure  of  "  Don 
Quixote "  will  suffice  to  show  that  Cervantes  had  no  deep 
design  or  elaborate  plan  in  his  mind  when  he  began  the  book. 
When  he  wrote  those  lines  in  which  "  with  a  few  strokes  of  a 
great  master  he  sets  before  us  the  pauper  gentleman,"  he  had 
no  idea  of  the  goal  to  which  his  imagination  was  leading  him. 
There  can  be  little  doubt  that  all  he  contemplated  was  a  short 
tale  to  range  with  those  he  had  already  written  —  "  Rinconete 
and  Cortadillo,''  "  The  Generous  Lover,"  "  The  Adventures  of 
Cardenio  and  Dorothea,"  the  "  Ill-advised  Curiosity,"  "  The 
Ca})tive's  Story "  —  a  tale  setting  forth  the  ludicrous  results 
that  might  be  expected  to  follow  the  attempt  of  a  crazy  gen- 
tleman to  act  the  part  of  a  knight-errant  in  modern  life. 

It  is  plain,  for  one  thing,  that  Sancho  Panza  did  not  enter 
into  the  original  scheme,  for  had  Cervantes  thought  of  him 
he  certainly  would  not  have  omitted  him  in  his  hero's  outfit, 
which  he  obviously  meant  to  be  complete.  Him  we  owe  to  the 
landlord's  chance  remark  in  chapter  iii.  that  knights  seldom 
travelled  without  squires.  It  is  needless  to  point  out  the  dif- 
ference this  inii)lies.  To  try  to  think  of  a  Don  Quixote  without 
Sancho  Panza  is  like  trying  to  think  of  a  one-bladed  pair  of 
scissors. 

The  story  was  written  at  first,  like  the  others,  without  any 
division,  as  may  be  seen  by  the  beginnings  and  endings  of  the 
first  half-dozen  chapters ;  and  without  the  intervention  of  Cid 
Haniet  Benengeli ;  and  it  seems  not  unlikely  that  Cervantes 
had  some  intention  of  bringing  Dulciuea,  or  Aldonza  Lorenzo, 
on  the  scene  in  person.  It  was  probably  the  ransacking  of  the 
Don's  library  and  the  discussion  on  the  books  of  chivalry  that 
first  suggested  it  to  him  that  his  idea  was  capable  of  develop- 
ment. What,  if  instead  of  a  mere  string  of  farcical  misad- 
ventures, he  were  to  make  his  tale  a  burlesque  of  one  of  these 
books,  caricaturing  their  style,  incidents,  and  spirit  ? 

In  pursuance  of  this  change  of  plan,  he  hastily  and  some- 
what clumsily  divided  what  he  had  written  into  chapters  on 
the  model  of  "  Amadis,"  invented  the  fable  of  a  mysterious 
Arabic  manuscript,  and  set  up  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  in  indta- 
tion  of  the  almost  invariable  practice  of  the  chivalry -romance 
authors,  who  were  fond  of  tracing  their  books  to  some  recondite 
source.  In  working  out  the  new  idea,  he  soon  found  the  value 
of  Sancho  Panza.  Indeed,  the  keynote,  not  only  to  Sancho's 
part,  but  to  the  whole  book,  is  struck  in  the  first  words  Sancho 


Ix  •  INTRODUCTION. 

utters  when  he  announces  his  intention  of  taking  his  ass  with 
him.  "  About  the  ass,"  we  are  told,  "  Don  Quixote  hesitated 
a  little,  trying  whether  he  could  call  to  mind  any  knight-errant 
taking  with  him  an  esquire  mounted  on  ass-back  ;  but  no  in- 
stance occurred  to  his  memory."  We  can  see  the  whole  scene 
at  a  glance,  the  stolid  unconsciousness  of  Sancho  and  the  per- 
plexity of  his  master,  upon  whose  perception  the  incongruity 
has  just  forced  itself.  This  is  Sancho's  mission  throughout 
the  book :  he  is  an  unconscious  Mei)histopheles,  always  un- 
wittingly making  mockery  of  his  master's  aspirations,  always 
exposing  the  fallacy  of  his  ideas  by  some  unintentional  ad 
ahsurduvi,  always  bringing  him  back  to  the  .world  of  fact  and 
commonplace  by  force  of  sheer  stolidity. 

The  burlesque,  it  Avill  be  observed,  is  not  steadily  kept  up 
even  throughout  the  First  Part.  Cervantes  seems,  as  in  fact 
lie  confesses  in  the  person  of  Cid  Hamet  in  chapter  xliv.  of 
the  Second  Part,  to  have  grown  weary  before  long  of  the  re- 
strictions it  imposed  upon  him,  and  to  have  felt  it,  as  he  says 
himself,  "  intolerable  drudgery  to  go  on  writing  on  one  sub- 
ject," chronicling  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  same  two 
characters.  It  is  plain  that,  as  is  often  the  case  with  persons 
of  sanguine  temperament,  sustained  effort  was  irksome  to  him. 
For  thirty  years  he  had  contemplated  the  completion  of  the 
"  Galatea,"  unable  to  bring  himself  to  set  about  it.  He  had 
the  "Persiles,"  which  he  looked  upon  as  his  best  work  —  in 
prose  at  least  —  an  equal  length  of  time  on  his  hands.  The 
Second  Part  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  he  wrote  in  a  very  desultoiy 
fashion,  putting  it  aside  again  and  again  to  turn  to  something 
else.  And  when  he  made  an  end,  it  was  always  a  hasty  one. 
Each  part  of  "  Don  Quixote "  he  finishes  off  with  a  wild 
flourish,  and  seems  to  fling  down  his  pen  with  a  "  whoop  " 
like  a  schoolboy  at  the  end  of  a  task  he  has  been  kept  in  for. 
Even  the  ''  Viaje  del  Parnaso,"  a  thing  entered  upon  and 
written  con  amove,  he  ends  abruptly  as  if  he  had  got  tired  of  it. 

It  was  partly  for  this  reason,  as  he  himself  admits,  that  he 
inserted  the  story  of  ''  Cardenio  and  Dorothea,"  that  with  the 
luitranslatable  title  which  I  have  ventured  to  call  the  "  Ill- 
advised  Curiosity,"  and  "  The  Captive's  Story,"  that  fill  up 
the  greater  part  of  the  last  half  of  the  volume,  as  well  as  the 
''  Chrysostom  and  Marcela  "  episode  in  the  earlier  chapters. 
But  of  course  there  were  other  reasons.  He  had  these  stories 
ready  written,  and  it  seemed  a  good  way  of  disposing  of  them. 


"DON  Quixote:'  Ixi 

It  is  by  no  means  unlikely  that  he  mistrusted  his  own  powers 
of  extracting  from  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  material  enough 
to  fill  a  book  ;  but  above  all  it  is  likely  he  felt  doubtful  of  his 
venture.  It  was  an  experiment  in  literature  far  bolder  than 
'^  Lazarillo  de  Tornies  "  or  "  Guzman  de  Alfarache ;  "  he  could 
not  tell  how  it  would  be  received  ;  and  it  was  as  well,  there- 
fore, to  provide  his  readers  with  something  of  the  sort  they 
were  used  to,  as  a  kind  of  insurance  against  total  failure. 

The  event  did  not  justify  his  diffidence.  The  public,  he 
acknowledges,  skimmed  the  tales  hastily  and  impatiently, 
eager  to  return  to  the  adventures  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho ; 
and  the  public  has  ever  since  done  much  the  same.  He  him- 
self owns  that  they  are  altogether  out  of  place,  and  nothing 
but  the  natural  reluctance  of  editors  and  translators  to  muti- 
late a  great  classic  has  preserved  them,  for  in  truth  they  are 
not  only  out  of  place,  but  positive  blemishes.  An  exception 
might  be  made  in  favor  of  the  story  of  the  Captive,  which 
has  an  interest  in  itself  independent  of  the  autobiographical 
touches  it  contains,  and  is  in  the  main  told  in  a  straightfor- 
ward soldierly  way. 

But  the  others  have  nothing  to  recommend  them.  Tijey  are 
commonplace  tales  of  intrigue  that  might  have  been  written 
by  any  tenth-rate  story-teller.  With  a  certain  pretence  of 
moral  purpose,  the  "  Ill-advised  Curiosity  "  is  a  nauseous  story, 
and  the  morality  of  Dorothea's  story  is  a  degree  worse  than 
that  of  Richardson's  ''  Pamela  ;  "  it  is,  in  fact,  a  story  of  '■'  easy 
virtue  rewarded."  The  characters  are  utterly  uninteresting; 
the  men,  Cardenio  and  Don  Fernando,  Anselmo  and  Lothario, 
are  a  contemptible  set ;  and  the  women  are  remarkable  for  noth- 
ing but  a  tendency  to  swoon  away  on  slight  provocation,  and 
to  make  long  speeches  the  very  adjectives  of  which  would  be 
enough  for  a  strong  man.  The  reader  will  observe  the  differ- 
ence between  the  Dorothea  of  the  tale  and  the  graceful, 
sprightly,  natural  Dorothea  who  acts  the  part  of  the  Princess 
Micomicona  with  such  genuine  gayety  and  fun. 

But  it  is  in  style  that  these  tales  offend  most  of  all.  They 
are  not  worth  telling,  and  they  are  told  at  three  times  the 
length  that  would  have  been  allowable  if  they  were.  ISTo 
device  known  to  prolixity  is  omitted.  Verbs  and  adjectives 
always  go  in  pairs  like  panniers  on  a  donkey,  as  if  one  must 
inevitably  fall  to  the  ground  without  the  other  to  balance  it. 
Nobody  ever  says  or  sees  anything,  he  always  declares  and 


Ixii  INTRODUCTION. 

asserts  it,  or  perceives  and  discerns  it.  If  a  thing  is  beantifnl 
it  must  likewise  be  lovely,  and  nothing  can  be  odious  without 
being  detestable  too ;  though  as  a  rule  adjectives  are  seldom 
used  but  in  the  superlative  degree.  Everything  is  said  with 
as  much  circiimlocution  and  rodomontade  as  possible,  as  if  the 
lavish  expenditure  of  words  were  the  great  object.  And  yet, 
following  immediately  upon  these  tawdry  artificial  productions, 
we  have  the  charming  little  episode  of  Don  Luis  and  Dona 
Clara,  as  if  Cervantes  wished  to  show  that  when  he  chose  he 
could  write  a  love  story  in  a  simple,  natural  style. 

The  latter  portion  of  the  First  Part  is,  in  short,  almost  all 
episodes  and  digressions ;  no  sooner  are  the  tales  disposed  of, 
than  we  have  the  long  criticism  on  the  chivalry  romances  and 
the  drama,  interesting  and  valuable  no  doubt,  but  still  just  as 
much  out  of  place,  and  that  is  followed  by  the  goat-herd's 
somewhat  pointless  story. 

By  the  time  Cervantes  had  got  his  volume  of  novels  off  his 
hands,  and  summoned  up  resolution  enough  to  set  about  the 
Second  Part  in  earnest,  the  case  was  very  much  altered.  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  had  not  merely  found  favor,  but 
had  already  become,  what  they  have  never  since  ceased  to  be, 
veritable  entities  to  the  popular  imagination.  There  was  no 
occasion  for  him  now  to  interpolate  extraneous  matter ;  nay, 
his  readers  told  him  plainly  that  what  they  wanted  of  him 
was  more  Don  Quixote  and  more  Sancho  Panza,  and  not  novels, 
tales,  or  digressions.  To  himself,  too,  his  creations  had  be- 
come realities,  and  he  had  become  proud  of  them,  especially 
of  Sancho.  He  began  the  Second  Part,  therefore,  under  very 
different  conditions,  and  the  difference  makes  itself  manifest 
at  once.  Even  in  translation  the  style  will  be  seen  to  be  far 
easier,  more  flowing,  more  natural,  and  more  like  that  of  a 
man  sure  of  himself  and  of  his  audience.  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  undergo  a  change  also.  In  the  First  Part,  Don  Qidxote 
has  no  character  or  individuality  whatever.  He  is  nothing 
more  than  a  crazy  representative  of  the  sentiments  of  the  chiv- 
alry romances.  In  all  that  he  says  and  does  he  is  simply 
repeating  the  lesson  he  has  learned  from  his  books  ;  and  there- 
fore, as  Hallani  with  perfect  justice  maintains,  it  is  absurd 
to  speak  of  him  in  the  gushing  strain  of  the  sentimental 
critics  when  they  dilate  upon  his  nobleness,  disinterestedness, 
daimtless  courage,  and  so  forth.  It  was  the  business  of  a 
knight-errant  to  right  wrongs,  redress  injuries,  and  succor  the 


''DON    QUIXOTE''  Ixiii 

distressed,  and  this,  as  a  matter  of  course,  he  makes  his  busi- 
ness when  he  takes  up  the  part ;  a  knight-errant  was  l>ound  to 
be  intrepid,  and  so  he  feels  i)ound  to  cast  fear  aside.  Of  all 
Byron's  melodious  nonsense  about  Don  Quixote,  the  most  non- 
sensical statement  is  that  '•  't  is  his  virtue  makes  him  nuid  ! '' 
The  exact  opposite  is  the  truth;  it  is  his  madness  nuakes  him 
virtuous. 

In  this  respect  he  remains  unchanged  in  the  Second  Part ; 
but  at  the  same  time  Cervantes  repeatedly  reminds  the  reader, 
as  if  it  was  a  point  upon  which  he  was  anxious  there  should 
be  no  mistake,  that  his  hero's  madness  is  strictly  confined  to 
delusions  on  the  suliject  of  chivalry,  and  that  on  every  other 
subject  he  is  "  discreto,"  one,  in  fact,  v/hose  faculty  of  discern- 
ment is  in  perfect  order.  He  thus  invests  Don  Quixote  with  a 
dignity  which  was  wholly  wanting  to  him  in  the  First  Part, 
and  at  the  same  time  reserves  to  himself  the  right  of  making 
him  speak  and  act  not  only  like  a  man  of  sense,  but  like  a 
man  of  exceptionally  clear  and  acute  mind,  whenever  it  may 
become  desirable  to  travel  outside  the  limits  of  the  burlescpie. 
The  advantage  of  this  is  that  he  is  enabled  to  make  \ise  of 
Don  Quixote  as  a  mouthpiece  for  his  own  reflections,  and  so, 
without  seeming  to  digress,  allow  himself  the  relief  of  digres- 
sion when  he  requires  it,  as  freely  as  in  a  commonplace  book. 

It  is  true  the  amount  of  individuality  bestowed  upon  Don 
Quixote  is  not  very  great.  There  are  some  natural  touches  of 
character  about  him,  siich  as  his  mixture  of  irascibility  and 
placability,  and  his  curios  s  affection  for  Sanclio,  together  with 
his  impatience  of  the  squire's  loquacity  and  impertinence ; 
but  in  the  niain,  apart  from  his  craze,  he  is  little  more  than  a 
thoughtful,  cultured  gentleman,  with  instinctive  good  taste  and 
a  great  deal  of  shrewdness  and  originality  of  mind. 

As  to  Sanclio,  it  is  plain,  from  the  concluding  w(_irds  of  the 
preface  to  the  First  Part,  that  he  was  a  favorite  with  his  crea- 
tor even  before  he  had  been  taken  into  favor  by  the  public. 
An  inferior  genius,  taking  him  in  hand  a  second  time,  woidd 
very  likely  have  tried  to  improve  him  by  making  him  more 
comical,  clever,  amiable,  or  virtuous.  But  Cervantes  was  too 
true  an  artist  to  spoil  his  work  in  this  way.  Sancho,  when  he 
re-appears,  is  the  old  Sancho  with  the  old  familiar  features ; 
but  with  a  difference ;  they  have  been  brought  out  more  dis- 
tinctly, but  at  the  same  time  with  a  careful  avoidance  of  any- 
thing like  caricature;    the  outline   has  been  tilled  in  Avhere 


Ixiv  INTRODUCTION. 

filling  in  was  necessary,  and,  vivified  by  a  few  tonclies  of  a 
master's  hand,  Sancho  stands  before  us  as  he  might  in  a  char- 
acter portrait  by  Velazquez.  He  is  a  much  more  important 
and  prominent  figure  in  the  Second  Part  than  in  the  First ; 
indeed  it  is  his  matchless  mendacity  about  Dulcinea  that  to  a 
great  extent  supplies  the  action  of  the  story. 

His  development  in  this  respect  is  as  remarkable  as  in  any 
other.  In  the  First  Part  he  displays  a  great  natural  gift  of 
lying,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  explanation  of  Don  Quixote's 
bruises  in  chapter  xvi.,  and  above  all  in  that  marvellous  series 
of  lies  he  strings  together  in  chapter  xxxi.  in  answer  to  Don 
(Jaixote's  questions  about  Dulcinea.  His  lies  are  not  of  the 
highly  imaginative  sort  that  liars  in  fiction  commonly  indulge 
in  ;  like  Falstaff's,  they  resemble  the  father  that  begets  them  ; 
they  are  simple,  homely,  plump  lies ;  i)lain  working  lies,  in 
short.  But  in  the  service  of  such  a  anaster  as  Don  Quixote  he 
develops  rapidly,  as  we  see  when  he  comes  to  palm  oft'  the 
three  country  wenches  as  Dulcinea  and  her  ladies  in  waiting. 
It  is  worth  noticing  how,  flushed  by  his  success  in  this  in- 
stance, he  is  tempted  afterwards  to  try  a  flight  beyond  his 
})owers  in  his  account  of  the  journey  on  Clavileiio. 

In  the  Second  Part  it  is  the  spirit  rather  than  the  incidents 
of  the  chivalry  romances  that  is  the  subject  of  the  burlesque. 
Enchantments  of  the  sort  travestied  in  those  of  Dulcinea  and 
the  Trifaldi  and  the  cave  of  Montesinos  play  a  leading  part  in 
the  later  and  inferior  romances,  and  another  distinguishing 
feature  is  caricatured  in  Don  Quixote's  blind  adoration  of  Dul- 
cinea. In  the  romances  of  chivalry  love  is  either  a  mere  ani- 
malism or  a  fantastic  idolatry.  Only  a  coarse-minded  man 
would  care  to  make  merry  with  the  former,  but  to  one  of  Cer- 
vantes' humor  the  latter  was  naturally  an  attractive  subject 
for  ridicule.  Like  everything  else  in  these  romances,  it  is  a 
gross  exaggeration  of  the  real  sentiment  of  chivalry,  but  its 
peculiar  extravagance  is  j^robably  due  to  the  influence  of  those 
masters  of  hyperbole,  the  I'rovencal  poets.  When  a  troul)a- 
dour  professed  his  readiness  to  obey  his  lady  in  all  things,  he 
made  it  incumbent  upon  the  next  comer,  if  he  wished  to  avoid 
the  imputation  of  tameness  and  commonplace,  to  declare  him- 
self the  slave  of  her  will,  which  the  next  was  compelled  to  cap 
by  some  still  stronger  declaration ;  and  so  expressions  of  devo- 
tion went  on  rising  one  above  the  other  like  biddings  at  an 
auction,  and  a  conventional  language  of  gallantry  and  theory 


"DON    QUIXOTE"  Ixv 

of  love  came  into  being  that  in  time  permeated  the  literature 
of  Southern  Europe,  and  bore  fruit,  in  one  direction  in  the 
transcendental  worship  of  Beatrice  and  Laura,  and  in  another 
in  the  grotesque  idolatry  which  found  exponents  in  writers  like 
Feliciano  de  Silva.  This  is  what  Cervantes  deals  with  in  D(;n 
Quixote's  passion  for  Dulcinea,  and  in  no  instance  has  he  car- 
ried out  the  burlesque  more  happily.  By  keeping  Dulcinea  in 
the  background,  and  making  her  a  vague  shadowy  being  of 
whose  very  existence  we  are  left  in  doubt,  he  invests  Don 
Quixote's  worship  of  her  virtues  and  charms  Avith  an  additional 
extravagance,  and  gives  still  more  point  to  the  caricature  of 
the  sentiment  and  language  of  the  romances. 

There  will  always  be  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  rela- 
tive merits  of  the  First  and  Second  Parts  of  "  Don  Quixote." 
As  naturally  follows  from  the  difference  in  aim  between  the 
two  Parts,  the  First  is  the  richer  in  laughable  incidents,  the 
Second  in  character ;  and  the  First  will  always  be  the  favorite 
with  those  whose  taste  leans  to  humor  of  a  farcical  sort,  while 
the  Second  will  have  the  preference  vrith  those  who  incline  to 
the  humor  of  comedy.  Another  reason  why  the  Second  Part 
has  less  of  the  purely  ludicrous  element  in  it  is  that  Cervantes, 
having  a  greater  respect  for  liis  hero,  is  more  careful  of  his 
personal  dignity.  In  the  interests  of  the  story  he  has  to  allow 
Don  Quixote  to  be  made  a  butt  of  to  some  extent,  but  he 
spares  him  the  cudgellings  and  cuffings  which  are  the  usual 
tinale  of  the  poor  gentleman's  adventures  in  the  First  Part. 

There  can  be  no  question,  however,  as  to  the  superiority  of 
the  Second  Part  in  style  and  construction.  It  is  one  of  the 
commonplaces  of  criticism  to  speak  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  as  if 
it  were  a  model  of  Spanish  prose,  but  in  truth  there  is  no 
work  of  note  in  the  language  that  is  less  deserving  of  the  title. 
There  are  of  course  various  styles  in  ''  Don  Quixote."  Dun 
Quixote's  own  language  (except  when  he  loses  his  temper 
with  Sancho)  is  most  commonly  modelled  on  that  of  the 
romances  of  chivalry,  and  many  of  the  descriptive  passages, 
like  those  about  the  sun  appearing  on  the  balconies  of  the 
east,  and  so  forth,  are  parodies  of  the  same.  I  have  already 
spoken  of  the  wearisome  verbosity  of  the  inserted  novels,  but 
the  narrative  portions  of  the  book  itself,  especially  in  the 
First  Part,  are  sometimes  just  as  long-winded  and  wordy.  In 
both  the  style  reminds  one  somewhat  of  that  of  the  euphuists, 
and  of  their  repugnance  to  saying  anything  in  a  natural  way, 

Vol.  l.—e 


Ixvi  INTRODUCTION. 

and  their  love  of  cold  conceits  and  verbal  quibbles.  These 
were  the  besetting  sins  of  the  prose  of  the  day,  but  Cervantes 
has  besides  sins  of  his  own  to  answer  for.  He  was  a  careless 
writer  at  all  times,  but  in  '<  Don  Quixote "  he  is  only  too 
often  guilty  of  downright  slovenliness.  The  word  is  that  of 
his  compatriot  and  stanch  admirer  Clemencin,  or  I  should 
not  venture  to  use  it,  justifiable  as  it  may  be  in  the  case  of  a 
writer  who  deals  in  long  sentences  staggering  down  the  page 
on  a  multiplicity  of  "  ands,"  or  working  themselves  into  tan- 
gles of  parentheses,  sometimes  parenthesis  within  parenthe- 
sis ;  who  begins  a  sentence  one  way  and  ends  it  another ;  who 
sends  relatives  adrift  without  any  antecedent  to  look  to;  who 
mixes  up  nominatives,  verbs,  and  pronouns  in  a  way  that 
would  have  driven  a  Spanish  Cobbett  frantic.  Here  is  an 
example  of  a  very  common  construction  in  "  Don  Quixote  :  " 
"  The  host  stood  staring  at  him,  and  entreated  with  him  that 
he  would  rise  ;  but  he  never  would  until  he  had  to  tell  him 
that  he  granted  him  the  boon  he  begged  of  him."  Here,  as 
Cobl)ett  would  have  said,  "  is  perfect  confusion  and  pell-mell," 
though  no  doubt  the  meaning  is  clear. 

Nor  are  his  laxaties  of  this  sort  only ;  his  grammar  is  very 
often  lax,  he  repeats  words  and  names  out  of  pure  heedless- 
ness, and  he  has  a  strange  propensity  to  inversion  of  ideas,  and 
a  curious  tendency  to  say  the  very  opposite  of  what  he  meant 
to  say.  His  blind  worshippers,  with  whom  it  is  an  axiom 
that  he  can  do  no  wrong,  make  an  odd  apology  for  some  of 
these  slips.  They  are  only  his  fun,  they  say ;  in  which  case 
Cervantes  must  have  written  with  a  prophetic  eye  to  the 
friends  of  Mr.  Peter  Magnus,  for  assuredly  no  others  of  the 
sons  of  men  would  be  amused  by  such  means. 

But  liesides  these  two,  there  is  Avhat  we  may  call  Cervantes' 
own  style,  that  into  which  he  falls  naturally  when  he  is  not 
imitating  the  romances  of  chivalry,  or  under  any  unlucky 
impulse  in  the  direction  of  fine-writing.  It  is  almost  the 
exact  opposite  of  the  last.  It  is  a  simple,  unaffected,  collo- 
(piial  style,  not  indeed  a  model  of  correctness,  or  distinguished 
by  any  special  grace  or  elegance,  for  Cervantes  always  wrote 
hastily  and  carelessly,  but  a  model  of  clear,  terse,  vigorous 
expression.  To  an  English  reader.  Swift's  style  will,  per- 
haps, convey  the  best  idea  of  its  character ;  at  the  same  time, 
though  equally  matter-of-fact,  it  has  more  vivacity  than 
Swift's. 


"DON    QUIXOTE."  Ixvii 

This  is  the  prevailing  style  of  the  Second  Part,  which  is 
cast  in  the  dramatic  form  to  a  much  greater  extent  than  the 
First,  consisting,  indeed,  largely  of  dialogue  between  master 
and  man,  or  of  Don  Quixote's  discourses  and  Saneho's  inimi- 
table comments  thereon.  Episodes,  Cid  Hamet  tells  us,  have 
been  sparingly  introduced,  and  he  adds  significantly,  "  with 
no  more  words  than  suffice  to  make  them  intelligible,"  as  if 
even  then  the  verbosity  of  the  novels  had  proved  too  much 
for  some  of  the  readers  of  the  First  Part.  The  assertion, 
however,  is  scarcely  borne  out  by  the  fair  Claudia's  story 
in  chapter  Ix.,  or  that  prodigious  speech  Avhich  Ana  Felix 
delivers  with  the  rope  round  her  neck  in  chapter  Ixiii. 

It  may  be,  as  Hallam  says,  that  in  the  incidents  of  the 
Second  Part  there  is  not  the  same  admirable  probability 
there  is  in  those  of  the  First ;  though  what  could  be  more 
delightfully  probable  than  the  sequel  of  Sancho's  unlucky 
purchase  of  the  curds  in  chapter  xvii.  for  example  ?  But 
it  must  be  allowed  that  the  Second  Part  is  constructed 
with  greater  art,  if  the  word  can  be  applied  to  a  story 
so  artless.  The  result  of  Sancho's  audacious  imposture  at 
El  Toboso,  for  instance,  its  consequences  to  himself  in  the 
matter  of  the  enchantment  of  Dulcinea  and  the  penance 
laid  upon  him,  his  shifts  and  shirkings,  and  Don  Quixote's 
insistence  in  season  and  out  of  season,  are  a  masterpiece  of 
comic  intrigue.  Not  less  adroit  is  the  way  in  which  encour- 
agement is  doled  out  to  master  and  man  from  time  to  time, 
to  keep  them  in  heart.  Even  with  all  due  allowance  for 
the  infatuation  of  Don  Quixote  and  the  simplicity  and  cu- 
pidity of  Sancho,  to  represent  them  as  holding  out  under 
an  unbroken  course  of  misfortune  would  have  been  untrue 
to  human  nature.  The  victory  achieved  in  such  knightly 
fashion  over  the  Biscayan,  supports  Don  Quixote  under  all 
the  disasters  that  befall  him  in  the  First  Part;  and  in  the 
Second  his  success  against  the  Knight  of  the  Mirrors,  and 
in  the  adventure  with  the  lion,  and  his  reception  as  a  knight- 
errant  by  the  Duke  and  Duchess,  serve  to  confirm  him  in 
his  idea  of  his  powers  and  vocation.  Material  support  was 
still  more  needful  in  Sancho's  case.  It  is  plain  that  a  pro- 
spective island  would  not  have  kept  his  faith  in  chivalry  alive, 
had  it  not  been  for  the  treasure-trove  of  the  Sierra  Morena 
and  the  flesh-pots  of  Camacho's  wedding. 

One  of  the  great  merits  of  "  Don  Quixote/'  and  one  of  the 


Ixviii  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

qualities  that  have  secured  its  acceptance   by  all  classes   of 
readers  and  made  it  the  most  cosmopolitan  of  laooks,  is  its  sim- 
plicity.    As  Samson  Carrasco  says,  "There's  nothing  in  it  to 
puzzle  over."    The  bachelor's  remark,  however,  cannot  be  taken 
literally,  else  there  would  be  an  impertinence   in  notes   and 
commentaries.      There  are,  of  course,  points  obvious  enough 
to  a  Spanish  seventeenth-centviry  audience  which  do  not  im- 
mediately strike  a  reader  nowadays,  and  Cervantes  often  takes 
it  for  granted  that  an  allusion  will  be  generally  understood 
which  is  only  intelligible  to  a  few.     For  example,  on  many  of 
his  readers  in  Spain,  and  most  of  his  readers  out  of  it,  the 
significance  of  his  choice  of  a  country  for  his  hero  is  com- 
pletely lost.     It  would  be  going  too  far  to  say  that  no  one  can 
thoroughly  comprehend  ''  Don  Quixote  "  without  having  seen 
La  Mancha,  but  undoubtedly  even  a  glimpse  of  La  Mancha  will 
give  an  insight  into  the  meaning  of  Cervantes  such  as  no  com- 
mentator can  give.     Of  all  the  regions  of  Spain  it  is  the  last 
that  would  suggest  the  idea  of  romance.     Of  all  the  dull  cen- 
tral' plateau  of  the  Peninsula  it  is  tlie  dullest  tract.     There  is 
something  impressive  about  the  grim    solitudes  of  Estrema- 
dura ;  and  if  the  plains  of  Leon  and  Old  Castile  are  bald  and 
dreary,  they  are  studded  with  old  cities   renowned  in  story 
and   rich   in  relics  of  the  past.     But  there  is  no  redeeming 
feature  in  the  Manchegan  landscape ;  it  has  all  the  sameness 
of  the  desert  without  its  dignity  ;  the  few  towns  and  villages 
that  break  its  monotony  are  mean  and  commonplace,  there  is 
nothing  venerable  about  them,  they  have  not  even  the  pict- 
uresqueness  of  poverty;    indeed,  Don  Quixote's  own  village, 
Arganiasilla,  has  a  sort  of  oppressive  respectability  in  the  prim 
regularity  of  its  streets   and  houses;   everything  is  ignoble; 
the  very  windmills  are  the  ugliest  and  shabbiest  of  the  wind- 
mill kind. 

To  any  one  who  knew  the  country  well,  the  mere  style  and 
title  of  "  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  "  gave  the  key  to  the 
author's  meaning  at  once.  La  Mancha  as  the  knight's  country 
and  scene  of  his  chivalries  is  of  a  piece  with  the  pasteboard 
helmet,  the  farm-laborer  on  ass-back  for  a  squire,  knighthood 
conferred  by  a  rascally  ventero,  convicts  taken  for  victims  of 
oppression,  and  the  rest  of  the  incongruities  between  Don 
Quixote's  world  and  the  world  he  lived  in,  between  things  as 
he  saw  them  and  things  as  they  were. 

It  is  strange  that  this  element  of  incongruity,  underlying  the 


''DON  Quixote:'  Ixix 

whole  liunior  and  purpose  of  the  book,  shoiikl  have  been  so 
little  heeded  by  the  majority  of  those  who  have  undertaken  to 
interpret  "  Don  Quixote."  It  has  been  completely  overlooked, 
for  example,  by  the  illustrators.  To  be  sure,  the  great  major- 
ity of  the  artists  who  illustrated  "  Don  Quixote  "  knew  noth- 
ing whatever  of  Spain.  To  them  a  venta  conveyed  no  idea  but 
the  abstract  one  of  a  roadside  inn,  and  they  could  not  therefore 
do  full  justice  to  the  humor  of  Don  Quixote's  misconception 
in  taking  it  for  a  castle,  or  perceive  the  remoteness  of  all  its 
realities  from  his  ideal.  But  even  when  better  informed  they 
seem  to  have  no  apprehension  of  the  full  force  of  the  discre- 
])ancy.  Take,  for  instance,  Gustave  Dore's  drawing  of  Don 
Quixote  watching  his  armor  in  the  inn-yard.  Whether  or  not 
the  Venta  de  Quesada  on  the  Seville  road  is,  as  tradition  main- 
tains, the  inn  described  in  "  Don  Quixote,"  beyond  all  question 
it  was  just  such  an  inn-yard  as  the  one  behind  it  that  Cervan- 
tes had  in  his  mind's  eye,  and  it  was  on  just  such  a  rude  stone 
trough  as  that  beside  the  primitive  draw-well  in  the  corner 
that  he  meant  Don  Quixote  to  deposit  his  armor.  Gustave 
Dore  makes  it  an  elaborate  fountain  such  as  no  arriero  ever 
watered  his  mules  at  in  the  corral  of  any  venta  in  Spain,  and 
thereby  entirely  misses  the  point  aimed  at  by  Cervantes.  It 
is  the  mean,  prosaic,  commonplace  character  of  all  the  sur- 
roundings and  circumstances  that  gives  a  significance  to  Don 
Quixote's  vigil  and  the  ceremony  that  follows.  Gustave  Dore 
might  as  well  have  turned  La  Tolosa  a:id  La  Molinera  into 
village  maidens  of  the  opera  type  in  ribbons  and  roses. 

No  humor  suffers  more  from  this  kind  of  treatment  than 
that  of  Cervantes.  Of  that  finer  and  more  delicate  humor 
through  which  there  runs  a  thread  of  pathos  he  had  but  little, 
or,  it  would  be  fairer  to  say,  shows  but  little.  There  are  few 
indications  in  "  Don  Quixote "  or  the  novelas  of  the  power 
that  produced  that  marvellous  scene  in  "  Lazarillo  de  Tormes," 
where  the  poor  hidalgo  paces  the  patio,  watching  with  his 
hungry  eyes  his  ragged  little  retainer  munching  the  crusts  and 
CO  wheel.  Cervantes'  humor  is  for  the  most  part  of  that  broader 
and  simpler  sort,  the  strength  of  which  lies  in  the  perception 
of  the  incongruous.  It  is  the  incongruity  of  Sancho  in  all  his 
ways,  words,  and  works,  with  the  ideas  and  aims  of  his  master, 
quite  as  much  as  the  wonderful  vitality  and  truth  to  nature  of 
the  character,  that  makes  him  the  most  humorous  creation  in 
the  whole  ran  ye  of  fiction. 


IxX  INTRODUCTION. 

That  unsmiling  gravity  of  which  Cervantes  was  the  first  great 
master,  "  Cervantes'  serious  air,"  which  sits  naturally  on  Swift 
alone,  perhaps,  of  later  humorists,  is  essential  to  this  kind  of 
humor,  and  here  again  Cervantes  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of 
his  interpreters.  Nothing,  unless  indeed  the  coarse  buffoonery 
of  Phillips,  could  be  more  out  of  place  in  an  atteinpt  to  rep- 
resent Cervantes,  than  a  flippant,  would-be  facetious  style, 
like  that  of  Motteux's  version  for  example,  or  the  sprightly, 
jaunty  air,  French  translators  sometimes  adopt.  It  is  the  grave 
matter-of-factness  of  the  narrative,  and  the  apparent  uncon- 
sciousness of  the  author  that  he  is  saying  anything  ludicrous, 
anything  but  the  merest  commonplace,  that  give  its  peculiar 
flavor  to  the  humor  of  Cervantes.  His,  iu  fact,  is  the  exact 
opposite  of  the  humor  of  Sterne  and  the  self-conscious  humorist. 
Even  when  Uncle  Toby  is  at  his  best,  you  are  always  aware  of 
"  the  man  Sterne  "  behind  him,  watching  you  over  his  shoulder 
to  see  what  effect  he  is  producing.  Cervantes  always  leaves  you 
alone  with  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho.  He  and  Swift  and  the 
great  humorists  always  keep  themselves  out  of  sight,  or,  more 
properly  speaking,  never  think  about  themselves  at  all,  unlike 
our  latter-day  school  of  humorists,  who  seem  to  have  revived 
the  old  horse-collar  method,  and  try  to  raise  a  laugh  by  some 
grotesque  assumption  of  ignorance,  imbecility,  or  bad  taste. 

It  is  true  that  to  do  full  justice  to  Spanish  humor  in  any 
other  language  is  well-nigh  an  impossibility.  There  is  a 
natural  gravity  and  a  sonorous  stateliness  about  Spanish,  be  it 
ever  so  colloquial,  that  make  an  absurdity  doubly  absurd,  and 
give  plausibility  to  the  most  preposterous  statement.  This  is 
what  makes  Sancho  Panza's  drollery  the  despair  of  the  consci- 
entious translator.  Sancho's  curt  comments  can  never  fall  flat, 
but  they  lose  half  their  flavor  when  transferred  from  their 
native  Castilian  into  any  other  medium.  But  if  foreigners 
have  failed  to  do  justice  to  the  humor  of  Cervantes,  they  are 
no  worse  than  his  own  countrymen.  Indeed,  were  it  not  for 
the  Spanish  peasant's  hearty  relish  of  "  Don  Quixote,"  one 
jnight  be  tempted  to  think  that  the  great  humorist  was  not 
looked  upon  as  a  humorist  at  all  in  his  own  country.  Any 
one  knowing  nothing  of  Cervantes,  and  dipping  into  the  exten- 
sive exegetical  literature  that  has  grown  up  of  late  years 
round  him  and  his  works,  would  infallibly  carry  away  the  idea 
that  he  was  one  of  the  most  obscure  writers  that  ever  spoiled 
paper,  that  if  he  had  a  meaning  his  chief  endeavor  was  to 


''DON    QUIXOTE''  Ixxi 

keep  it  to  liiniself,  and  that  Avhatever  gifts  he  may  have  pos- 
sessed, humor  was  most  certainly  not  one  of  them. 

The  craze  of  Don  Quixote  seems,  in  some  instances,  to  have 
communicated  itself  to  his  critics,  making  them  see  things 
that  are  not  in  the  book,  and  run  full  tilt  at  phantoms  that 
have  no  existence  save  in  their  own  imaginations.  Like  a 
good  many  critics  nowadays,  they  forget  that  screams  are  not 
criticism,  and  that  it  is  only  vulgar  tastes  that  are  influenced 
by  strings  of  superlatives,  three-piled  hyperboles,  and  pompous 
epithets.  But  what  strikes  one  as  particularly  strange  is  that 
while  they  deal  in  extravagant  eulogies,  and  ascribe  all  man- 
ner of  imaginary  ideas  and  qualities  to  Cervantes,  they  show 
no  perception  of  the  quality  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
of  his  readers  would  rate  highest  in  him,  and  hold  to  be  the 
one  that  raises  him  above  all  rivalry.  If  they  are  not  actu- 
ally insensible  to  his  humor,  they  probably  regard  it  as  a 
quality  which  their  own  dignity  as  well  as  his  will  not  allow 
them  to  recognize,  and  I  am  inclined  to  suspect  that  this  feel- 
ing has  as  much  to  do  with  their  bitterness  against  Clemencin, 
as  his  temerity  in  venturing  to  point  out  faults  in  the  god  of 
their  idolatry.  Clemencin,  if  not  the  only  one,  is  one  of  the 
few  Spanish  critics  or  commentators  who  show  a  genuine  and 
hearty  enjoyment  of  the  humor  of  "  Don  Quixote."  Again 
and  again,  as  he  is  growling  over  Cervantes'  laxities  of 
grammar  and  construction,  he  has  to  lay  down  his  pen,  and 
wipe  his  eyes  that  are  brimming  over  at  some  drollery  or 
na'irete  of  Sancho's,  and  it  may  well  be  that  this  frivolous 
behavior  is  regarded  with  the  utmost  contempt  by  men  so 
intensely  in  earnest  as  the  Cervantistas. 

To  speak  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  as  if  it  were  merely  a  humor- 
ous book,  would  be  a  manifest  misdescription.  Cervantes,  at 
times,  makes  it  a  kind  of  commonplace  book  for  occasional 
essays  and  criticisms,  or  for  the  observations  and  reflec- 
tions and  gathered  wisdom  of  a  long  and  stirring  life.  It  is  a 
mine  of  shrewd  observation  on  mankind  and  human  nature. 
Among  modern  novels  there  may  be,  here  and  there,  more 
elaborate  studies  of  character,  but  there  is  no  book  richer  in 
individualized  character.  What  Coleridge  said  of  Shake- 
speare m  minimis  is  true  of  Cervantes ;  he  never,  even  for 
the  most  temporary  purpose,  puts  forward  a  lay  figure. 
There  is  life  and  individuality  in  all  his  characters,  however 
little  they  may  have  to  do,  or  however  short  a  time  they  may 


Ixxii  INTRODUCTION. 

be  before  the  reader.  Samson  Carrasco,  the  curate,  Teresa 
Panza,  Altisidora,  even  the  two  students  met  on  the  road  to 
the  cave  of  Montesinos,  all  live  and  move  and  have  their 
being ;  and  it  is  characteristic  of  the  broad  humanity  of  Cer- 
vantes that  there  is  not  a  hateful  one  among  them  all.  Even 
poor  Maritornes,  with  her  deplorable  morals,  has  a  kind  heart 
of  her  own  and  "  some  faint  and  distant  resemblance  to  a 
Christian  about  her ;  "  and  as  for  Sancho,  though  on  dissection 
we  fail  to  find  a  lovable  trait  in  him,  unless  it  be  a  sort  of 
doglike  affection  for  his  master,  who  is  there  that  in  his  heart 
does  not  love  him  ? 

But  it  is,  after  all,  the  humor  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  that  dis- 
tinguishes it  from  all  other  books  of  the  romance  kind.  It  is 
this  that  makes  it,  as  one  of  the  most  judicial-minded  of 
modern  critics  calls  it,  "  the  best  novel  in  the  world  beyond 
all  comparison."  ^  It  is  its  varied  humor,  ranging  from  broad 
farce  to  comedy  as  subtle  as  Shakespeare's  or  Moliere's,  that 
has  naturalized  it  in  every  country  where  there  are  readers,  and 
made  it  a  classic  in  every  language  that  has  a  literature. 

We  are  sometimes  told  that  classics  have  had  their  day,  and 
that  the  literature  of  the  future  means  to  shake  itself  loose 
from  the  past,  and  respect  no  antiquity  and  recognize  no  prec- 
edent. Will  the  coming  iconoclasts  spare  "  Don  Quixote,"  or 
is  (^ervantes  doomed  with  Homer  and  I)ante,  Shakespeare  and 
Moliere  ?  So  far  as  a  forecast  is  possible,  it  seems  clear  that 
their  hu.mor  will  not  be  his  humor.  Even  now,  persons  who 
take  their  idea  of  humor  from  that  form  of  it  most  commonly 
found  between  yellow  and  red  lioards  on  a  railway  book-stall 
may  be  sometimes  heard  to  express  a  doubt  about  the  humor 
of  "  Don  Quixote,"  and  the  sincerity  of  those  who  profess  to 
enjoy  it,  they  themselves  being,  in  their  own  phrase,  unable  to 
see  any  fun  in  it.  The  humor  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  has,  how- 
ever, the  advantage  of  being  based  upon  human  nature,  and  as 
the  human  nature  of  the  future  will  probably  be,  upon  the 
whole,  much  the  same  as  the  human  nature  of  the  past,  it  is, 
perhaps,  no  unreasonable  supposition  that  what  has  been 
relished  for  its  truth  may  continue  to  find  some  measure  of 
acceptance. 

If  it  be  not  presumptuous  to  express  any  solicitude  about 

'I  am  going  through  Don  Quixote  again,  and  admire  it  more  than 
ever.  It  is  certainly  the  best  novel  in  the  world  beyond  all  comparison. 
—  Macaulay,  l^ifc  and  Letters. 


''DON  Quixote:'  ixxiii 

the  future,  let  us  hope  so ;  for,  it  miist  be  owned,  its  prophets 
do  not  encourage  the  idea  that  liveliness  will  be  among  its 
characteristics.  The  humor  of  Cervantes  may  have  its  uses 
too,  even  in  that  advanced  state  of  society.  The  future, 
doubtless,  will  b;'  great  and  good  and  wise  and  virtuous,  but 
being  still  human,  it  will  have  its  vanities  and  self-conceits, 
its  shams,  humbugs,  and  impostures,  even  as  we  have,  or 
haply  greater  than  ours,  for  everything,  we  are  told,  will  be 
on  a  scale  of  which  we  have  no  conception  ;  and  against  these 
there  is  no  weapon  so  effective  as  the  old-fashioned  one  with 
which  Cervantes  smote  the  great  sham  of  his  own  day. 


THE    AUTHOR'S    PREFACE. 


Idle  Readef.  :  thou   mayest  believe  me  without  any  oalli 

that  I  woukl  this  book,  as  it  is  the  child  of  my  brain,  were  the 

fairest,  gayest,  and  cleverest  that  could  be  imagined.     But  I 

could  not  counteract  Nature's  law  that  everything  shall  beget 

its  like ;  and  what,  then,  could  this  sterile,  ill-tilled  wit  of  mine 

beget  but  the  story  of  a  dry,  shrivelled,  wliimsical  offspring, 

full  of  thoughts  of  all  sorts  and  such  as  never  came  into  any 

other  imagination  —  just  what  might  be  begotten  in  a  prison, 

where  every  misery  is  lodged  and  every  doleful  sound  makes 

its  dwelling  ?     Trancpiillity,  a  cheerful  retreat,  pleasant  fields, 

bright  skies,  murmuring  brooks,  peace  of  mind,  these  are  the 

things  that  go  far  to  make  evei>the  most  barren  muses  fertile, 

and  bring  into  the  world  births  that  fill  it  with  wonder  and 

delight.     Sonietimes  when  a  father  has  an  ugly,  loutish  son, 

the  love  he  bears  him  so  blindfolds  his  eyes  that  he  does  not 

see  his  defects,  or,  rather,  takes  them  for  gifts  and  charms  of 

nund  and  body,  and  talks  of  them  to  his  friends  as  wit  and 

grace.     I,  however  —  for  though  I  pass  for  the  father,  I  am 

but  the  stepfather  to  "  Don  Qidxote  "  —  have  no  desire  to  go 

with  the  current  of  custom,  or  to  implore  thee,  dearest  reader, 

almost  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  as  others  do,  to  pardon  or  excuse 

the  defects  thou  wilt  perceive  in  this  child  of  mine.     Thou  art 

neither  its  kinsman  nor  its  friend,  thy  soul  is  thine  own  and 

thy  will  as  free  as  any  man's,  whate'er  he  be,  thou  art  in  thine 

owu  house  and  master  of  it  as  much  as  the  king  is  of  his  taxes 

—  and  thou  knowest  the  common  saying,  "  Under  my  cloak  I 

kill  the  king ;  "  '   all  which  exempts  and  frees  thee  from  every 

consideration  and  obligation,  and  thou  canst  say  what  thou 

wilt  of  the  story  without  fear  of  being  abused  for  any  ill  or 

rewarded  for  any  good  thou  mayest  say  of  it. 

My  wish  would  be  simply  to  present  it  to  thee  plain  and 

'  Prov.  201.     In  its  original  and  correct  form  it  is  "give  orders  to  tlie 
king  "  —  "  al  rey  mando  "  —  i.e.,  recognize  no  superior. 

(Ixxv) 


Ixxvi  DON    QUIXOTE. 

unadorned,  without  any  embellishment  of  preface  or  uncount- 
able muster  of  customary  sonnets,  epigrams,  and  eulogies,  sucli 
as  are  commonly  put  at  the  beginning  of  books.  For  I  can  tell 
thee,  though  composing  it  cost  me  some  labor,  I  found  none 
greater  than  the  making  of  this  Preface  thou  art  now  reading. 
Many  times  did  I  take  up  my  pen  to  write  it,  and  many  did  I 
lay  it  down  again,  not  knowing  what  to  write.  One  of  these 
times,  as  I  was  pondering  with  the  pa})er  before  me,  a  pen  in 
my  ear,  my  elbow  on  the  desk,  and  my  cheek  in  my  hand, 
thinking  of  what  I  should  say,  there  came  in  unexpectedly  a 
certain  lively,  clever  friend  of  mine,  who,  seeing  me  so  deep  in 
thought,  asked  the  reason ;  to  which  I,  making  no  mystery  of 
it,  answered  that  I  was  thinking  of  the  preface  I  had  to  make 
for  the  story  of  "  Don  Quixote,"  which  so  troubled  me  that  I 
had  a  mind  not  to  make  any  at  all,  nor  even  publish  the 
achievements  of  so  noble  a  knight. 

"  For,  how  could  you  expect  me  not  to  feel  uneasy  about 
what  that  ancient  lawgiver  they  call  the  Public  will  say  when 
it  sees  me,  after  skunbering  so  many  years  in  the  silence  of 
oblivion,  coming  out  now  with  all  my  years  upon  my  back,  and 
with  a  book  as  dry  as  a  rush,  devoid  of  invention,  meagre  in  style, 
poor  in  thoughts,  wholly  wanting  in  learning  and  wisdom, 
without  quotations  in  the  margin  or  annotations  at  the  end, 
after  the  fashion  of  other  books  I  see,  which,  though  all  faljles 
and  profanity,  are  so -full  of  maxims  from  Aristotle,  and  Plato, 
and  the  whole  herd  of  philosojihers,  that  they  till  the  readers 
with  amazement  and  convince  them  that  the  authors  are  men 
of  learning,  erudition,  and  eloquence.  And  then,  when  they 
quote  the  Holy  Scriptures  I  —  any  one  would  say  they  are  St. 
Thomases  or  other  doctors  of  the  Church,  observing  as  they  do 
a  decorum  so  ingenious  that  in  one  sentence  they  describe  a 
distracted  lover  and  in  the  next  deliver  a  devout  little  sermon 
that  it  is  a  pleasure  and  a  treat  to  hear  and  read.  Of  all  this 
there  will  be  nothing  in  my  book,  for  I  have  nothing  to  quote  in 
the  margin  or  to  note  at  the  end,  and  still  less  do  I  know  what 
authors  I  follow  in  it,  to  place  them  at  the  beginning,  as  all  do, 
under  the  letters  A,  K,  C,  ])eginning  with  Aristotle  and  ending 
with  Xenophon,  or  Zoilus,  or  Zeuxis,  though  one  was  a  slanderer 
and  the  other  a  painter.  Also  my  book  must  do  without  son- 
nets at  the  beginning,  at  least  sonnets  whose  authors  are  dukes, 
marquises,  counts,  bishops,  ladies,  or  famous  poets.  Though  if 
I  were  to  ask  two  or  three  obliging  friends,  I  know  they  would 


THE    AUTHOR'S    PREFACE.  Ixxvii 

give  lue  them,  and  such  as  the  productiuns  of  those  that  have 
the  highest  reputation  in  our  Spain  could  not  equal. ' 

"  In  short,  my  friend,"  I  continued,  "  I  am  determined 
that  Seiior  Don  Quixote  shall  remain  buried  in  the  archives  of 
his  own  La  Mancha  luitil  Heaven  provide  some  one  to  garnish 
him  with  all  those  things  he  stands  in  need  of  ;  because  I  find 
myself,  through  my  shallowness  and  want  of  learning,  un- 
equal to  sup})lying  them,  and  because  I  am  by  nature  shy  and 
careless  about  hunting  for  authors  to  say  what  I  myself  can 
say  without  them.  Hence  the  cogitation  and  abstraction  you 
found  me  in,  and  reason  enough,  what  you  have  heard  from 
me." 

Hearing  this,  my  friend,  giving  himself  a  slap  on  the  fore- 
head and  breaking  into  a  hearty  laugh,  exclaimed,  "  Before 
(rod.  Brother,  now  am  I  disabused  of  an  error  in  which  I  have 
been  living  all  this  long  time  I  have  known  you,  all  through 
which  I  have  taken  you  to  be  shrew^d  and  sensible  in  all  you 
do  ;  but  now  I  see  you  are  as  far  from  that  as  the  heaven  is 
from  the  earth.  How  ?  Is  it  possible  that  things  of  so  little 
moment  and  so  easy  to  set  right  can  occujjy  and  perplex  a  ripe 
wit  like  yours,  fit  to  lireak  through  and  crush  far  greater 
obstacles  ?  By  my  faith,  this  comes,  not  of  any  Avant  of 
ability,  but  of  too  much  indolence  and  too  little  knowledge  of 
life.  Do  you  want  to  know  if  I  am  telling  the  truth  ?  Well, 
then,  attend  to  me,  and  you  will  see  how,  in  the  opening  ami 
shutting  of  an  eye,  I  sweep  away  all  your  difficulties,  and 
supply  all  those  deficiencies  which  you  say  check  and  dis- 
courage you  from  bringing  l)efore  the  world  the  story  of  your 
famous  Don  Quixote,  the  light  and  mirror  of  all  knight- 
errantry." 

'  Tlie  humor  of  tliis,  and  indeed  of  tlie  greater  part  of  the  Preface,  can 
liardly  be  relislied  without  a  knowledge  of  the  books  of  the  (hiy,  liut  esjie- 
cially  Lope  de  Vega's,  whicli  in  their  original  editions  aitpeareil  generally 
witli  an  imposing  display  of  complimentary  sonnets  and  verses,  as  well  as 
of  other  adjuncts  of  the  sort  Cervantes  laughs  at.  Lope's  Isidro  (1599)  had 
ten  pieces  of  complimentary  verse  prefixed  to  it,  and  the  Ilermosura  de 
Angelica  (1G02)  liad  seven.  Hartzenbusch  remarks  tliat  Aristotle  and 
riato  are  the  first  authors  quoted  by  Lope  in  the  Peregrino  en  su  Patrin 
(1604). 

Who  the  two  or  three  obliging  friends  may  have  been  is  not  easy  to  say. 
Young  Quevedo,  who  had  just  then  taken  his  place  in  the  front  rank  of 
the  poets  of  the  day,  was,  no  doubt,  one;  Espinel  may  have  been  another; 
and  Jauregui  might  have  ])een  the  third.  Cervantes  had  not  many  friends 
among  the  poets  of  the  day.  His  friendships  lay  rather  among  those  of 
the  generation  that  was  dying  out  when  Don  Quixote  appeared. 


Ixxviii  DON   QUIXOTE. 

"  Say  on,"  said  I,  listening  to  his  talk  ;  ''  how  do  you  pro- 
pose to  make  up  for  my  diffidence,  and  reduce  to  order  this 
chaos  of  perplexity  I  am  in  ?  " 

To  which  he  made  answer,  "  Your  first  difficulty  about  the 
sonnets,  epigrams,  or  complimentary  verses  which  you  want 
for  the  beginning,  and  which  ought  to  be  by  persons  of  im- 
portance and  rank,  can  be  removed  if  you  yourself  take  a 
little  trouble  to  make  them  ;  you  can  afterwards  baptize  them, 
and  put  any  name  you  like  to  them,  fathering  them  on  Prestcr 
John  of  the  Indies  or  the  Emperor  of  Trebizond,  who,  to  my 
knowledge,  were  said  to  have  been  famous  poets  :  and  even 
if  they  were  not,  and  any  pedants  or  bachelors  should  attack 
you  and  question  the  fact,  never  care  two  maravedis  for  that, 
for  even  if  they  prove  a  lie  against  you  they  cannot  cut  off 
the  hand  you  wrote  it  with. 

"  As  to  references  in  the  margin  to  the  books  and  authors 
from  whom  you  take  the  aphorisms  and  sayings  you  put  into 
your  story,  it  is  only  contriving  to  fit  in  nicely  any  sentences 
or  scraps  of  Latin  you  may  happen  to  have  by  heart,  or  at  any 
rate  that  will  not  give  you  much  trouble  to  look  up  ;  so  as, 
when  you  speak  of  freedom  and  captivity,  to  insert 

Non  bene  pro  toto  libertas  venditur  aiiro ; 

and  then  refer  in  the  margin  to  Horace,  or  whoever  said  it ;  ^ 
or,  if  you  allude  to  the  power  of  death,  to  come  in  with  — 

Pallida  mors  jequo  pulsat  pede  pauperum  tabernas, 
Regumque  turres. 

If  it  be  friendship  and  the  love  God  bids  us  bear  to  our 
enemy,  go  at  once  to  the  Holy  Scriptures,  which  you  can  do 
with  a  very  small  amount  of  research,  and  quote  no  less  than 
the  words  of  God  himself :  Ego  autem  dico  vohis :  dUigife 
inhnicos  vestros.  If  you  speak  of  evil  thoughts,  turn  to  the 
Gospel  :  De  corde  exeunt  cogitafioties  mala'.  If  of  the  fickle- 
ness of  friends,  there  is  Cato,  who  will  give  you  his  distich  : 

Donee  eris  felix  nmltos  numerabis  amicos, 
Tempora  si  fuerint  nubila,  solus  eris.** 

'  .T.sop,  Fable  of  the  Dog  and  the  Wolf. 

-  The  distich  is  not  Cato's,  but  ( )vi<rs  ;  but  Hartzenbusch  points  out  that 
there  is  a  distich  of  Cato's  beginning  Cum  fueris  felix  which  Cervantes 
may  have  originally  inserted,  substituting  the  other  afterwards  as  more 
applicable.  Lope  de  Vega's  second  name  was  Felix,  and  Hartzenbusch 
thinks  the  quotation  was  aimed  at  him.  The  Cato  is,  of  course,  Dionysius 
Cato,  author  of  the  DisticJia  de  Moribus. 


THE    author's    preface.  Ixxix 

With  these  and  such  like  bits  of  Latin  they  will  take  you  for 
a  grammarian  at  all  events,  and  that  nowadays  is  no  small 
honor  and  profit. 

"  With  regard  to  adding  annotations  at  the  end  of  the  book, 
you  may  safely  do  it  in  this  way.  If  you  mention  any  giant 
in  your  book  contrive  that  it  shall  be  the  giant  Goliath,  and 
with  this  alone,  which  will  cost  yon  almost  nothing,  you  have 
a  grand  note,  for  you  can  put  —  The  giant  Gollas  or  Gollatlt 
was  a  PliUistliie  ivliom  the  shepherd  David  sleiv  by  a  mightij 
stone-cast  in  the  Terebinth  valley^  as  is  related  in  the  Book  of 
Kings  —  in  the  chapter  where  you  find  it  written. 

"  Next,  to  prove  yourself  a  man  of  erudition  in  polite  litera- 
ture and  cosmography,  manage  that  the  river  Tagus  shall  be 
named  in  yotir  story,  and  there  you  are  at  once  with  another 
famous  annotation,  setting  forth  —  The  river  Tagus  was  so 
called  after  a  King  of  Spain :  it  has  its  source  in  such  and 
such  a  pdace  and  falls  into  the  ocean,  kissing  the  umlls  of  the 
famous  city  of  Lisbon,  and  it  is  a,  common  belief  that  it  has 
golden  sands,  etc.^  If  you  should  have  anything  to  do  with 
robbers,  I  will  give  you  the  story  of  Cacus,  for  I  have  it  by 
heart ;  if  with  loose  women,  there  is  the  Bishop  of  Mondoiledo, 
who  will  give  you  the  loan  of  Lamia,  Laida,  and  Flora,  any 
reference  to  whom  will  bring  you  great  credit ;  ^  if  with  hard- 
hearted ones,  Ovid  will  furnish  you  with  Medea ;  if  with 
witches  or  enchantresses.  Homer  has  Calypso,  and  Virgil 
Circe ;  if  with  valiant  captains,  Julius  Caesar  himself  will 
lend  you  himself  in  his  own  '  Commentaries,'  and  Plutarch 
will  give  you  a  thousand  Alexanders.  If  you  should  deal 
with  love,  with  two  ounces  you  may  know  of  Tuscan  you  can 
go  to  Leon  the  Hebrew,  who  will  supply  you  to  your  heart's 
content ;  ^  or  if  you  should  not  care  to  go  to  foreign  countries 
you  have  at  home  Fonseca's  '  Of  the  Love  of  God,'  in  which  is 
condensed  all  that  you  or  the  most  imaginative  mind  can  want 
on  the  subject."  In  short,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  manage  to 
quote  these  names,  or  refer  to  these  stories  I  have  mentioned. 


'  In  the  Index  of  Proper  Names  to  Lope's  Arcadia  there  is  a  description 
of  the  Tagus  in  very  nearly  these  words. 

^  The  Bishop  of  Mondonedo  was  Antonio  do  Guevara,  in  whose 
epistles  the  story  referred  to  appears.  The  introduction  of  the  Bishop 
and  the  "  creditable  reference  "  is  a  touch  after  Swift's  heart. 

^  Author  of  the  Dialoghi  di  Aniore,  a  Portuguese  Jew,  who  settled  in 
Spain,  but  was  expelled  and  went  to  Naples  in  1492. 

■*.  Amor  de  Bios,  by  Cristobal  de  Fonseca,  printed  in  1594. 


Ixxx  DON    QUIXOTE. 

in  your  own,  and  leave  it  to  me  to  insert  tlie  annotations  and 
quotations,  and  I  swear  by  all  that 's  good  '  to  till  your  mar- 
gins and  use  up  four  sheets  at  the  end  of  the  book. 

"  Now  let  us  come  to  those  references  to  authors  which  other 
books  have,  and  you  want  for  yours.  The  remedy  for  this  is 
very  simple :  You  have  only  to  look  out  for  some  book  that 
quotes  them  all,  from  A  to  Z  as  you  say  yourself,  and  then 
insert  the  very  same  alphabet  in  your  book,  and  though  the 
imposition  may  be  plain  to  see,  because  you  have  so  little  need 
to  borrow  from  them,  tliat  is  no  matter ;  there  will  probably 
be  some  simple  enough  to  believe  that  you  have  made  vise  of 
them  all  in  this  plain,  artless  story  of  yours.  At  any  rate,  if 
it  answers  no  other  pur})Ose,  this  long  catalogue  of  authors 
will  serve  to  give  a  surprising  look  of  authority  to  your  book. 
Besides,  no  one  will  trouble  himself  to  verify  whether  you 
have  followed  them  or  whether  you  have  not,  being  no  way 
concerned  in  it ;  especially  as,  if  I  mistake  not,  this  book  of 
yours  has  no  need  of  any  one  of  those  things  you  say  it  wants, 
for  it  is,  from  beginning  to  end,  an  attack  upon  the  books  of 
chivalry,  of  whicli  Aristotle  never  dreamt,  nor  St.  Basil  said  a 
word,  nor  Cicero  had  any  knowledge ;  nor  do  the  niceties  of 
truth  nor  the  observations  of  astrology  come  within  the  range 
of  its  fanciful  vagaries ;  nor  have  geometrical  measurements 
or  refutations  of  the  arguments  used  in  rhetoric  anything  to 
do  with  it ;  nor  does  it  mean  to  preach  to  anybody,  mixing  up 
things  human  and  divine,  a  sort  of  motley  in  which  no 
Christian  understanding  should  dress  itself.  It  has  only  to 
avail  itself  of  truth  to  nature  in  its  composition,  and  the  more 
})erfect  the  imitation  the  better  the  work  will  be.  And  as  this 
piece  of  yours  aims  at  nothing  more  than  to  destroy  the  author- 
ity and  influence  which  books  of  chivalry  have  in  the  world 
and  with  the  pidilic,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  go  a-begging 
for  aphorisms  from  philosophers,  precepts  from  Holy  Scripture, 
fables  from  poets,  speeches  from  orators,  or  miracles  from 
saints ;  but  merely  to  take  care  that  your  style  and  diction 
run  musically,  pleasantly,  and  plainly,  with  clear,  proper,  and 

'"  By  all  that 's  good"  —  "  Voto  a  tal" — one  of  the  milder  forms  of 
asseveration  used  as  a  substitute  on  occasions  when  the  stronger  "  Voto 
a  Dios  "  might  seem  uncalled  for  or  irreverent ;  an  expletive  of  the  same 
nature  as  "  Egad  !  "  "  Begad  !  "  or  the  favorite  feminine  exclamation, 
"  Oh  my  !  "  "  By  all  that's  good  "  has,  no  doubt,  the  same  origin.  Of  the 
same  sort  are,  "  Voto  a  Brios,"  "  Voto  a  Rus,"  "  Cuerpo  de  tal,"  "  Vida 
de  tal,"  etc.     The  last  two  correspond  to  our  "  Od's  body,"  "  Od's  life." 


THE    AUTHOR'S    PREFACE.  Ixxxi 

well-placed  words,  setting  forth  your  purpose  to  the  best  of 
your  power  and  as  well  as  possible,  and  putting  your  ideas 
intelligibly,  without  confusion  or  obscurity.  Strive,  too,  that 
in  reading  your  story  the  melancholy  may  be  moved  to 
laughter,  and  the  merry  made  merrier  still ;  that  the  simple 
shall  not  be  Avearied,  that  the  judicious  shall  admii'e  the  in- 
vention, that  the  grave  shall  not  despise  it,  nor  the  wise  fail 
to  praise  it.  Finally,  keep  your  aim  fixed  on  the  destruction 
of  that  ill-founded  edifice  of  the  books  of  chivalry,  hated  by 
some  and  praised  by  many  more ;  for  if  you  succeed  in  this 
you  will  have  achieved  no  small  success." 

In  profound  silence  I  listened  to  what  my  friend  said,  and 
his  observations  made  such  an  impression  on  me  that,  without 
attempting  to  question  them,  I  admitted  their  soundness,  and 
out  of  them  I  determined  to  make  this  Preface ;  wherein, 
gentle  reader,  thou  wilt  perceive  my  friend's  good  sense,  my 
good  fortiine  in  finding  such  an  adviser  in  such  a  time  of  need, 
and  what  thou  hast  gained  in  receiving,  without  addition  or 
alteration,  the  story  of  the  famous  Don  (Quixote  of  La  Mancha, 
who  is  held  by  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  district  of  the  Campo 
de  Montiel  to  have  been  the  chastest  lover  and  the  bravest 
knight  that  has  for  many  years  been  seen  in  that  neighbor- 
hood. I  have  no  desire  to  magnify  the  service  I  render  thee 
in  making  thee  acquainted  with  so  renowned  and  honored  a 
knight,  but  I  do  desire  thy  thanks  for  the  acquaintance  thou 
wilt  make  with  the  famous  Sancho  Panza,  his  squire,  in  whom, 
to  my  thinking,  I  have  given  thee  condensed  all  the  squirely 
drolleries  '  that  are  scattered  through  the  swarm  of  the  vain 
books  of  chivalry.  And  so  —  may  God  give  thee  health,  and 
not  forget  me.     Vale. 

'  The  gracioso  was  the  "  droll "  of  the  Spanish  stage.  Cervantes  re- 
peatedly uses  the  word  to  describe  Sancho,  and,  as  here,  alludes  to  his 
gracias  or  drolleries. 

Vol.  I.-/ 


Ixxxii  DON    QUIXOTE. 


COMMENDATORY   VERSES. 


URGANDA   THE   UNKNOWN  ^ 


TO    THE    BOOK    OF    DON    QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MANCHA. 

If  to  be  welcomed  by  the  good, 

0  Book !  tliou  make  thy  steady  aim, 
No  empty  chatterer  will  dare 

To  question  or  dispute  thy  claim. 
But  if  perchance  thou  hast  a  mind 

To  win  of  idiots  approbation. 
Lost  labor  will  be  thy  reward, 

Though  they  '11  pretend  appreciation. 

They  say  a  goodly  shade  he  hnds 

Who  shelters  'neath  a  goodly  tree  ;  ^ 
And  such  a  one  thy  kindly  star 

In  Bejar  hath  provided  thee  : 
A  royal  tree  whose  spreading  boughs 

A  show  of  princely  fruit  display  ; 
A  tree  that  bears  a  noble  Duke, 

The  Alexander  of  his  day." 

'  All  translators,  I  think,  except  Shelton  and  Mr.  DnfBeld,  have  entirely 
omitted  these  preliminary  pieces  of  verse,  which,  however,  should  he 
preserved — not  for  their  poetical  merits,  which  are  of  the  slenderest 
sort,  but  because,  being  burlesques  on  tlif  pompous,  extravagant,  lauda- 
tory verses  usually  prefixed  to  l)ooks  in  tlie  time  of  Cervantes,  they  are 
in  harmony  Avith  the  aim  and  purpose  of  the  work,  and  also  a  fulfilment 
of  the  promise  lield  out  in  the  Preface. 

-  Or  more  strictly  "the  unrecognized ;  "  a  personage  in  Amadis  of  Gaul 
somewliat  akin  to  Morgan  la  Fay  and  Vivien  in  tlie  Arthur  legend,  though 
the  part  she  ])lays  is  more  like  that  of  Merlin.  She  derived  her  title  from 
the  faculty  which,  like  Merlin,  she  possessed  of  changing  her  form  and 
appearance  at  will.  The  verses  are  assigned  to  her  probably  because  she 
was  the  adviser  of  Amadis.  They  form  a  kind  of  appendix  to  the  author's 
Preface. 

^  Prov.  15. 

■•The  Duke  of  Bejar,  to  wliom  the  book  was  dedicated.  The  Zuniga 
family,  of  which  the  Duke  was  the  head,  claimed  descent  from  the  royal 
line  of  Navarre. 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  Ixxxiil 

Of  a  Manchegan  gentleman 

Thy  purpose  is  to  tell  tlie  story, 
Relating  how  he  lost  his  wits 

O'er  idle  tales  of  love  and  glory, 
Of  "  ladies,  arms,  and  cavaliers  :  "  ^ 

A  new  Orlando  Furioso  — 
Innamorato,  rather  —  who 

Won  Dnlcinea  del  Toboso. 

Pnt  no  vain  emblems  on  thy  shield; 

All  figures  —  that  is  bragging  play." 
A  modest  dedication  make. 

And  give  no  scoffer  room  to  say, 
"■  What !  Alvaro  de  Luna  here  ? 

Or  is  it  Hannibal  again  ? 
Or  does  King  Francis  at  Madrid 

Once  more  of  destiny  complain  ?  ^'  ^ 

Since  Heaven  it  hath  not  pleased  on  thee 

Deep  erudition  to  bestow. 
Or  black  Latino's  gift  of  tongues,  * 

No  Latin  let  thy  pages  show. 
Ape  not  philosophy  or  wit, 

Lest  one  who  can  not  comprehend, 
Make  a  wry  face  at  thee  and  ask, 

"  Why  offer  flowers  to  me,  my  friend  ?  " 

'"Le  donne,  i  cavalieri,  I'arme,  gli  amori " — Orlando  Furioso.,  \.  i. 
This  is  one  of  many  proofs  that  the  Orlando  of  Ariosto  was  one  of  the 
sources  from  which  Cervantes  borrowed. 

''"Figures,"  i.e.  picture  cards.  The  allusion  to  vain  emblems  on  the 
shield  is  a  sly  hit  at  Lope  de  Vega,  whose  portrait  in  the  Arcadia,  and 
again  in  the  Rimas  (1602),  has  underneath  it  a  shield  bearing  nine  castles 
surrounded  by  an  orle  with  ten  more. 

3  This  refers  to  the  querulous  and  egotistic  tone  in  which  dedications 
were  often  written.  Alvaro  de  Luna  was  the  Constable  of  Castile  and 
favorite  of  John  IL,  beheaded  at  Valladolid  in  1450.  Francis  I.  of 
France  was  kept  a  prisoner  at  Madrid  by  Charles  V.  for  a  year  after  the 
battle  of  Pavia.  The  last  four  lines  of  the  stanza  are  almost  verbatim 
from  verses  by  Fray  Domingo  de  Guzman  written  as  a  gloss  upon  some 
lines  carved  by  the  poet  Fray  Luis  de  Leon  on  the  wall  of  his  cell  in  Va- 
lladolid, where  he  was  imprisoned  by  the  Inquisition. 

■•Juan  Latino,  a  self-educated  negro  slave  in  the  household  of  the 
Duke  of  Sesa,  who  gave  him  his  freedom.  He  was  for  sixty  years  Pro- 
fessor of  Rhetoric  and  Latin  at  Granada,  where  he  died  in  1573. 


Ixxxiv  DON   QUIXOTE. 

Be  not  a  meddler ;  no  affair 

Of  thine  the  life  thy  neighbors  lead : 
Be  prudent ;  oft  the  random  jest 

Recoils  upon  the  jester's  head. 
Thy  constant  labor  let  it  be 

To  earn  thyself  an  honest  name, 
For  fooleries  preserved  in  print 

Are  perpetuity  of  shame. 

A  further  counsel  bear  in  mind : 

If  that  thy  roof  be  made  of  glass, 
It  shows  small  wit  to  pick  up  stones 

To  pelt  the  people  as  they  pass. 
Win  the  attention  of  the  wise, 

And  give  the  thinker  food  for  thought; 
Whoso  indites  frivolities, 

Will  but  by  simpletons  be  sought. 


AMADIS   OF   GAUL 

TO    DON    QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MA^"CHA. 


SONNET. 


Thou  that  didst  imitate  that  life  of  mine,' 

When  I  in  lonely  sadness  on  the  great 

Rock  Peiia  Pobre  sat  disconsolate. 
In  self-imposed  penance  there  to  pine ; 
Thou,  whose  sole  beverage  was  the  bitter  brine 

Of  thine  own  tears,  and  who  withouten  plate 

Of  silver,  copper,  tin,  in  lowly  state 
Off  the  bare  earth  and  on  earth's  fruits  didst  dine ; 
Live  thou,  of  thine  eternal  glory  sure. 

So  long  as  on  the  round  of  the  fourth  sphere 

The  bright  Apollo  shall  his  coursers  steer. 
In  thy  renown  thou  shalt  remain  secure. 
Thy  country's  name  in  story  shall  endiu'e, 

And  thy  sage  author  stand  without  a  peer. 

'  In  allusion  to  Don  Quixote's  penance  in  the  Sierra  Morena. 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  Ixxxv 

DON   BELIANIS   OF   GREECE  ^ 

TO    DON    QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MANCHA. 
SONNET. 

In  slashing,  hewing,  cleaving,  word,  and  deed, 

I  was  the  foremost  knight  of  chivalry, 

Stout,  bold,  expert,  as  e'er  the  world  did  see ; 
Thousands  from  the  oppressor's  wi-ong  I  freed ; 
Great  were  my  feats,  eternal  fame  their  meed ; 
.     In  love  I  proved  my  truth  and  loyalty ; 

The  hugest  giant  was  a  dwarf  for  me ; 
Ever  to  knighthood's  laws  gave  I  good  heed. 
My  mastery  the  Fickle  Goddess  owned, 

And  even  Chance,  submitting  to  control. 

Grasped  by  the  forelock,  yielded  to  my  will. 
Yet  —  though  above  yon  horned  moon  enthroned 
My  fortune  seems  to  sit  —  great  Quixote,  still 

Envy  of  thy  achievements  fills  my  soul. 


THE   LADY   OEIANA^ 

TO    DULCINEA    DEL    TOBOSO. 


SONNET. 


Oh,  fairest  Dulcinea,  could  it  be  ! 

It  were  a  pleasant  fancy  to  suppose  so  — 

Could  Miraflores  change  to  El  Toboso, 
And  London's  town  to  that  which  shelters  thee  ! 
Oh,  could  mine  but  acquire  that  livery 

Of  countless  charms  thy  mind  and  body  show  so ! 

Or  him,  now  famous  grown  —  thou  mad'st  him  grow  so  — 
Thy  knight,  in  some  dread  combat  could  I  see ! 
Oh,  could  I  be  released  from  Amadis 

By  exercise  of  such  coy  chastity 

•  V.  Note  1,  p.  3. 

*  Oriana,  the  heroine  of  Amadis  of  Gaul.  Her  castle  Miraflores  was 
within  two  leagues  of  London.  Slielton  in  his  translation  puts  it  at 
Greenwich. 


Ixxxvi  DON    QUIXOTE. 

As  led  thee  gentle  Quixote  to  dismiss ! 

Then  would  my  heavy  sorrow  turn  to  joy; 
None  would  I  envy,  {ill  would  envy  me, 
And  happiness  be  mine  without  alloy. 


GANDALIN,    SQUIRE   OF   AMADIS    OF   GAUL, 

TO    SANCHO    PANZA,    SQUIRE    OF    DON    QUIXOTE. 


SONNET. 


All  hail,  illustrious  man !     Fortune,  when  she 

Bound  thee  apprentice  to  the  esquire  trade, 

Her  care  and  tenderness  of  thee  displayed, 
Shaping  thy  course  from  misadventure  free. 
No  longer  now  doth  proud  knight-errantry 

Regard  with  scorn  the  sickle  and  the  spade ; 

Of  towering  arrogance  less  count  is  made 
Than  of  plain  esquire-like  simplicity. 
I  envy  thee  thy  Dapple,  and  thy  name. 

And  those  alforjas  thou  wast  wont  to  stuff 
With  comforts  that  thy  providence  proclaim, 

Excellent  Sancho  !  hail  to  thee  again  ! 

To  thee  alone  the  Ovid  of  our  Spain 
Does  homage  with  the  rustic  kiss  and  cuff.^ 


FROM  EL  DONOSO,  THE  MOTLEY  POET,^ 

ON    SANCHO    PANZA    AND    BOCINANTE. 


ON   SANCHO. 

I  am  the  esquire  Sancho  Pan — 

Who  served  Don  Quixote  of  La  Man — ; 

'  "Rustic  kiss  and  cuff" —  huzcorona —  a  boorish  practical  joke  the 
point  of  which  lay  in  inducing  some  simpleton  to  kiss  the  joker's  hand, 
which  as  be  stoops  gives  him  a  cuff  on  the  cheek.  The  application  here 
is  not  very  obvious,  for  it  is  the  person  who  does  homage  who  receives 
the  buzcorona.  It  is  not  clear  who  is  meant  by  the  Spanish  Ovid ;  some 
say  Cervantes  himself ;  others,  as  Hartzenbusch,  Lope  de  Vega. 

^  "  Motley  poet "  —  Poeta  entreverado.    Entreverado  is  properly  "  mixed 
fat  and  lean,"  as  bacon  should  be.     Commentators  have  been  at  some 


COMMENDATORY    VERSES.  Ixxxvii 

But  from  his  service  I  retreat — , 
Resolved  to  pass  my  life  discreet — ; 
For  Villadiego,  called  the  Si — , 
Maintained  that  only  in  rati — 
Was  found  the  secret  of  well-be  — , 
According  to  the  "  Celesti — :  "  ^ 
A  book  divine,  except  for  sin — 
By  speech  too  plain  in  my  opiu — . 


ON    ROCINANTE. 

I  am  that  Rocinante  fa — , 
Great-grandson  of  great  Babie — / 
Who,  all  for  being  lean  and  bon — , 
Had  one  Don  Quixote  for  an  own — ; 
But  if  I  matched  him  well  in  weak- 
I  never  took  short  commons  meek — , 
But  kept  myself  in  corn  by  steal — , 
A  trick  I  learned  from  Lazaril — , 
When  with  a  piece  of  straw  so  neat — 
The  blind  man  of  his  wine  he  cheat — .^ 


> 


pains  to  extract  a  meaning  from  these  lines.  The  truth  is  they  hare 
none,  and  were  not  meant  to  have  any.  If  it  were  not  profanity  to  apply 
the  word  to  anything  coming  from  Cervantes,  they  miglit  be  called  mere 
pieces  of  buffoonery,  mere  idle  freaks  of  the  author's  i^cn.  The  verse  in 
which  they  are  written  is  worthy  of  the  matter.  It  is  of  tlie  sort  called  in 
Spanish  de  j^ids  cortados,  its  peculiarity  being  that  each  line  ends  with  a 
word  the  last  syllable  of  which  has  been  lopped  off.  The  invention  has 
been  attributed  to  Cervantes,  but  the  honor  is  one  which  no  admirer  of 
his  will  be  solicitous  to  claim  for  him,  and  in  fact  tliere  are  half  a  dozen 
specimens  in  the  Picara  Justinn,  a  book  published  if  anything  earlier 
than  Do7i  Quixote.  I  have  here  imitated  the  toii7-  de  force  as  well  as  I 
could,  an  experiment  never  before  attempted  and  certainly  not  worth  re- 
peating. The  "  Urganda"  verses  are  written  in  the  same  fashion,  but  I 
did  not  feel  bound  to  try  the  reader's  patience  —  or  my  own  —  by  a  more 
extended  reproduction  of  the  puerility. 

'  Celestina.,  or  Tragicomedy  of  Calisto  and  Melibaea  (1499),  the  first 
act  of  which  is  gencralh^  attributed  to  Rodrigo  Cota,  the  remaining  nine- 
teen being  by  Fernando  Kojas.  Tnere  is  no  mention  in  it  of  "  Villadiego 
the  Silent;"  the  name  only  appears  in  the  proverbial  saying  about  "taking 
the  breeches  of  Villadiego,"  i.e.  beating  a  hasty  retreat. 

'  Babieca,  the  famous  charger  of  the  Cid. 

^  An  allusion  to  the  charming  little  novel  of  Lazarillo  de  Tormes,  and 
the  trick  by  which  the  hero  secured  a  share  of  his  master's  wine. 


Ixxxviii  DON    QUIXOTE. 

ORLANDO    FURIOSO 

TO    DON"    QUIXOTE    OF     LA    MANCHA. 
SONNET. 

If  tliou  art  not  a  Peer,  peer  thou  hast  none ;  ' 
Among  a  thousand  Peers  thou  art  a  peer ; 
Nor  is  there  room  for  one  when  thou  art  near, 
Unvanquislied  victor,  great  unconquered  one  ! 
Orlando,  by  Angelica  undone, 

Am  I ;  o'er  distant  seas  condemned  to  steer. 
And  to  Fame's  altars  as  an  offering  bear 
Valor  respected  by  oblivion. 
I  can  not  be  thy  rival,  for  thy  fame 
And  prowess  rise  above  all  rivalry. 
Albeit  l)oth  bereft  of  wits  we  go. 
But,  though  the  Scythian  or  the  Moor  to  tame 
Was  not  thy  lot,  still  thou  dost  rival  me : 
Love  binds  us  in  a  fellowship  of  woe. 


THE   KNIGHT   OF  PHCEBUS^ 

TO    DON    QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MANCHA. 

My  sword  was  not  to  be  compared  with  thine, 

Phoebus  of  Spain,  marvel  of  courtesy. 
Nor  with  thy  famous  arm  this  hand  of  mine 

That  smote  from  east  to  west  as  lightnings  fly, 

'  The  play  iipon  the  word  "  Peer  "  is  justified  by  Orlando's  rank  as  one 
of  the  Twelve  Peers.  This  sonnet  is  pronounced  "truly  unintelligble  and 
had  "  by  Clemencin,  and  it  is,  it  must  be  confessed,  very  feeble  and  ob- 
scure. I  have  adopted  a  suggestion  of  Hartzenbusch's  which  makes 
somewhat  better  sense  of  the  concluding  lines,  but  no  emendation  can  do 
much.  Nor  are  the  remaining  sonnets  nuich  better ;  there  is  some  drol- 
lery in  the  dialogue  between  Babieca  and  Rocinante,  but  the  sonnets  of 
the  Knight  of  Phoebus  and  Solisdan  are  weak.  There  was  no  particular 
call  for  Cervantes  to  be  funny,  but  if  he  thought  otherwise  it  would  have 
been  just  as  well  not  to  leave  the  fun  out. 

"The  Knights  of  Phcehits^  or  of  the  Sun —  Cahallero  del  Feho,  espejo  cle 
Principes  y  Cahalleros — a  ponderous  romance  by  Diego  Ortuiiez  do 
Calahorra  and  Marcos  Martinez,  in  four  parts,  the  first  printed  at  Sara- 
gossa  in  1562,  the  others  at  Alcald  de  Henares  in  1580. 


COMMENDATOUY    VERSES.  Ixxxix 

I  scorned  all  empire,  and  that  monarchy 
The  rosy  east  held  out  did  I  resign 

"For  one  glance  of  Claridiana's  eye, 
The  bright  Aurora  for  whose  love  I  pine. 
A  miracle  of  constancy  my  love ; 

And  banished  by  her  ruthless  cruelty, 

This  arm  had  might  the  rage  of  Hell  to  tame. 
But,  Gothic  Quixote,  happier  thou  dost  prove, 
For  thou  dost  live  in  Dulcinea's  name, 
And  famous,  honored,  wise,  she  lives  in  thee. 


FROM   SOLISDANi 

TO    DON    QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MANOHA. 


SONNET. 


Your  fantasies,  Sir  Quixote,  it  is  true, 

That  crazy  brain  of  yours  have  quite  upset, 
But  aught  of  base  or  mean  hath  never  yet 

Been  charged  by  any  in  reproach  to  you. 

Your  deeds  are  open  proof  in  all  men's  view ; 
For  you  went  forth  injustice  to  abate, 
And  for  your  pains  sore  drubbings  did  you  get 

From  many  a  rascally  and  ruffian  crew. 

If  the  fair  Dulcinea,  your  heart's  queen, 
Be  unrelenting  in  her  cruelty, 

If  still  your  woe  be  powerless  to  move  her, 
In  such  hard  case  your  comfort  let  it  be 

That  Sancho  was  a  sorry  go-between : 

A  booby  he,  hard-hearted  she,  and  you  no  lover. 

'  Solisdan  is  appart>ntly  a   name  invented   by  Cervantes,  for  no   sucl 
personage-  figures  in  any  known  book  of  chivalry. 


XC  DON    QUIXOTE. 

DIALOGUE 

BETWEEN    BABTECA    AND    ROCINANTE. 

SONNET. 

B.  "  How  comes  it,  Rocinaute,  you  're  so  lean  ?  " 
R.         "  I  'm  underfed,  with  overwork  I  'm  worn." 
B.        ''  But  what  becomes  of  all  the  hay  and  corn  ?  " 
R.  "  My  master  gives  me  none  ;  he  's  much  too  mean." 
B.  "  Come,  come,  you  show  ill-breeding,  sir,  I  ween ; 

'T  is  like  an  ass  your  master  thus  to  scorn." 
R.         "  He  is  an  ass,  will  die  an  ass,  an  ass  was  born ; 

Why,  he  's  in  love ;  what 's  plainer  to  be  seen  ?  " 
B.  "  To  be  in  love  is  folly  ?  "  — R.  "  No  great  sense." 
B.      "  You  're  metaphysical."  —  R.  "  From  want  of  food." 
B.      "  Rail  at  the  squire,  then.  —  R.  "  Why,  what 's  the  good  ? 

I  might  indeed  complain  of  him,  I  grant  ye, 
But,  squire  or  master,  where 's  the  difference  ? 

They  're  both  as  sorry  hacks  as  Rocinante." 


^^"^^.Vl" 


lit' 


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DON     QUIXOTE 

PART  I. 


CHAPTER   I. 

WHICH     TREATS     OF     THE     CHARACTER     AND    PURSUITS    OF     THE 
FAMOUS    GENTLEMAN    DON    QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MANCHA. 

In  a  village  of  La  Mancha,  the  name  of  which  I  have  no  desire 
to  call  to  mind,^  there  lived  not  long  since  one  of  those  gentle- 
men that  keep  a  lance  in  the  lance-rack,  an  old  buckler,  a  lean 
hack,  and  a  greyhound  for  coursing.  An  olla  of  rather  more  beef 
than  mutton,  a  salad  on  most  nights,  scraps  on  Saturdays,-  lentils 
on  Fridays,  and  a  pigeon  or  so  extra  on  Sundays,  made  away 
with  three-quarters  of  his  income.     The  rest  of  it  went  in  a 

'  See  Introduction,  p.  xxxiii. 

^  The  national  disli,  the  o//a,  of  whicli  tlie  puchero  of  Central  and 
Northern  Spain  is  a  poor  relation,  is  a  stew  with  beef,  bacon,  sausage, 
chick-peas,  and  cabbage  for  its  prime  constituents,  and  for  ingredients 
any  other  meat  or  vegetable  that  may  be  available.  There  is  nothing  ex- 
ceptional in  Don  Quixote's  olla  being  more  a  beef  than  a  mutton  one,  for 
mutton  is  scarce  in  Spain  except  in  the  mountain  districts.  Salpicon 
(salad)  is  meat  minced  with  red  peppers,  onions,  oil,  and  vinegar,,  and  is 
in  fact  a  sort  of  meat  salad.  Duelos  y  quebrantos,  the  title  of  the  Don's 
Saturday  dish,  would  be  a  puzzle  even  to  the  majority  of  SpanisJi 
readers  were  it  not  for  Pellicer's  explanation.  In  the  cattle-feeding  dis- 
tricts of  Spain,  the  carcasses  of  animals  that  came  to  an  untimely  end 
were  converted  into  salt  meat,  and  the  parts  unfit  for  that  purpose  were 
sold  cheap  under  the  name  of  duelos  y  quehranios  —  "  sorrows  and  losses" 
(literally  "  breakings  ")  and  were  held  to  be  sufficiently  unlike  meat  to  be 
eaten  on  days  when  flesh  was  forbidden,  among  which  in  Castile  Saturday 
was  included  in  commemoration  of  the  battle  of  Navas  de  Toiosa.  Any 
rendering  of  such  a  phrase  must  necessarily  be  unsatisfactory,  and  in 
adopting  "  scraps  "  I  have,  as  in  the  other  cases,  merely  gone  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  choosing  the  least  of  evils. 
Vol.  I.-l 


2  DON    QUIXOTE. 

doublet  of  fine  cloth  and  velvet  breeches  and  shoes  to  match 
for  holidays,  while  on  week-days  he  made  a  brave  figure  in  his 
best  homespun.  He  had  in  his  house  a  housekeeper  past 
forty,  a  niece  under  twenty,  and  a  lad  for  the  field  and 
market-place,  who  used  to  saddle  the  hack  as  well  as  handle 
the  bill-hook.  The  age  of  this  gentleman  of  ours  was  border- 
ing on  fifty,  he  was  of  a  hardy  habit,  spare,  gaunt-featured,  a 
very  early  riser  and  a  great  sportsman.  They  will  have  it  his 
surname  was  Quixada  or  Quesada  (for  here  there  is  some 
difference  of  opinion  among  the  authors  who  write  on  the  sub- 
ject), although  from  reasonable  conjectures  it  seems  plain  that 
he  was  called  Quixana.  This,  however,  is  of  but  little  im- 
portance to  our  tale ;  it  will  be  enough  not  to  stray  a  hair's 
breadth  from  the  truth  in  the  telling  of  it. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  the  above-named  gentleman 
whenever  he  was  at  leisure  (which  was  mostly  all  the  year 
round)  gave  himself  up  to  reading  books  of  chivalry  with  such 
ardor  and  avidity  that  he  almost  entirely  neglected  the  pur- 
suit of  his  field-sports,  and  even  the  management  of  his  prop- 
erty ;  and  to  such  a  pitch  did  his  eagerness  and  infatuation 
go  that  he  sold  many  an  acre  of  tillage-land  to  buy  books  of 
chivalry  to  read,  and  brought  home  as  many  of  them  as  he 
could  get.  But  of  all  there  were  none  he  liked  so  well  as  those 
of  the  famous  Feliciano  de  Silva's  composition,  for  their 
lucidity  of  style  and  complicated  conceits  were  as  pearls  in  his 
sight,  particularly  when  in  his  reading  he  came  upon  court- 
ships and  cartels,  where  he  often  found  passages  like  "  the 
rrason  of  the  tmreason  with  which  my  reason  is  afflicted  so 
iveakens  my  reason  that  with  7'easo7i  I  murmur  at  your 
heauty;"  or  again,  "  fAe  high  heavens,  that  of  your  divinity 
divinely  fortify  you  loith  the  stars,  render  you  deserving  of  the 
desert  yoxLr  greatness  deserves.^'  ^  Over  conceits  of  this  sort 
the  poor  gentleman  lost  his  wits,  and  used  to  lie  awake  striv- 
ing to  iniderstand  them  and  worm  the  meaning  out  of  them  ; 
what  Aristotle  himself  could  not  have  made  out  or  extracted 
had  he  come  to  life  again  for  that  special  purpose.     He  was 

'  The  first  passage  quoted  is  from  the  Chronicle  of  Don  Florisel  de 
Xiqaea.,  by  Feliciano  de  Silva,  the  volumes  of  which  appeared  in  1532, 
1536,  and  1551,  and  from  the  tenth  and  eleventh  books  of  the  Amadis 
series.  The  second  is  from  Olirante  de  Laura,  by  Torquemada  (1564). 
Clemencin  points  out  that  the  first  passage  had  been  previously  picked 
out  as  a  sample  of  the  absurdity  of  the  school,  by  Diego  Hurtado  de 
Mendoza. 


CHAPTER    I.  3 

not  at  all  easy  about  the  wounds  wliicli  Don  Belianis  ^  gave 
and  took,  because  it  seemed  to  liini  that,  great  as  wen;  the  sur- 
geons who  had  cured  him,  he  must  ha\e  had  his  face  and  body 
covered  all  over  with  seams  and  scars.  He  commended,  how- 
ever, the  author's  way  of  ending  his  book  with  the  promise  of 
that  interminable  adventure,  and  many  a  time  was  he  tem])led 
to  take  up  his  pen  and  tinisJi  it  properly  as  is  there  proposed, 
which  no  doubt  he  would  have  done,  and  made  a  successful 
piece  of  work  of  it  too,  had  not  greater  and  more  absorbing 
thoughts  prevented  him. 

Many  an  argument  did  he  have  with  the  curate  of  his 
village  (a  learned  num,  and  a  graduate  of  Siguenza  '■'■  )  as  to 
which  had  been  the  better  knight,  Palmerin  of  England  or 
Amadis  of  Gaul.  Master  Nicholas,  the  village  barber,  how- 
ever, used  to  say  that  neither  of  them  came  up  to  tlie  Knight 
of  Phcebus,  and  that  if  tliere  was  any  that  could  compare 
with  liini  it  was  Don  Galaor,  the  brother  of  Amadis  of  Gaul, 
because  he  had  a  spirit  that  was  equal  to  every  occasion,  and 
was  no  finikin  knight,  nor  lachrymose  like  his  brother,  while 
in  the  matter  of  valor  he  was  not  a  whit  behind  him.  In 
short,  he  became  so  absorlied  in  his  books  that  he  s})ent  liis 
nights  from  sunset  to  sunrise,  and  his  days  from  dawn  to  dark, 
poring  over  them ;  and  what  with  little  sleep  and  much  read- 
ing his  brains  got  so  dry  that  he  lost  his  wits.  His  fancy 
grew  full  of  what  he  used  to  read  about  in  his  liooks,  enchant- 
ments, quarrels,  battles,  challenges,  wounds,  wooings,  loves, 
agonies,  and  all  sorts  of  impossible  nonsense ;  and  it  so  pos- 
sessed his  mind  that  the  whole  fabric  of  invention  and  fancy  he 
read  of  was  true,  that  to  him  no  history  in  the  world  had  more 
reality  in  it.  He  used  to  say  the  Cid  Iluy  Diaz  was  a  very 
good  knight,  but  that  he  was  not  to  be  compared  with  tlie 
Knight  of  the  l>urning  Sword  who  with  one  back-stroke  cut  in 
half  two  fierce  and  monstrous  giants.  He  thought  more  of 
Bernardo  del  Carpio  because  at  Eoncesvalles  he  slew  Roland 
in  spite  of  enchantments,^  availing  himself  of  the  artifice  of 

'  The  History  of  Don  Belianis  de  Grecia,  by  the  Licentiate  Jeronimo 
Fernandez,  1.547.  It  has  been  by  some  inelndcd  in  the  Amadis  series, 
but  it  is  in  reality  an  independent  romiincc. 

^  Siguenza  was  one  of  tiie  Universidddes  nienores^  the  degrees  of  which 
were  often  laughed  at  liy  the  Spanisii  liumorists. 

^  The  Spanish  tradition  of  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles  is,  of  course,  at 
variance  with  the  Chanson  de  Rola)id.,  l)ut  it,  is  somewhat  nearer  historical 
truth,  inasmuch  as  the  slaughter  of  Roland  and  the  rearguard  of  C'harlc- 
magne.'s  army  was  effected  not  by  Saracens,  but  by  the  Basque  moun- 
taineers. 


4  DON  qrixoTE. 

Hercules  when  he  strangled  Antpeus  the  son  of  Terra  in  his 
arms.  He  approved  highly  of  the  giant  Morgante,  because, 
although  of  the  giant  breed  which  is  always  arrogant  and  ill- 
conditioned,  he  alone  was  affable  and  well-bred.  But  above 
all  he  admired  Eeinaldos  of  Montalban,  especially  when  he 
saw  him  sallying  forth  from  his  castle  and  robbing  every  one 
he  met,  and  when  beyond  the  seas  he  stole  that  iuuxge  of 
Mahomet  Avhich,  as  his  history  says,  was  entirely  of  gold. 
And  to  have  a  bout  of  kicking  at  that  traitor  of  a  Ganelon  he 
would  have  given  his  housekeeper,  and  his  niece  into  the 
bargain.^ 

In  short,  his  wits  being  quite  gone,  he  hit  upon  the  strangest 
notion  that  ever  madman  in  this  world  hit  upon,  and  that  was 
that  he  fancied  it  was  right  and  requisite,  as  well  for  the  sup- 
j)ort  of  his  own  honor  as  for  the  service  of  his  country,  that 
he  should  make  a  knight-errant  of  himself,  roaming  the  world 
over  in  full  armor  and  on  horseback  in  quest  of  adventures, 
and  putting  in  practice  himself  all  that  he  had  read  of  as 
being  the  usual  practices  of  knights-errant ;  righting  every 
kind  of  wrong,  and  exposing  himself  to  peril  and  danger  from 
which,  in  the  issue,  he  was  to  reap  eternal  renown  and  fame. 
Already  the  poor  man  saw  himself  crowned  by  the  might  of 
his  arm  Emperor  of  Trebizond  ^  at  least ;  and  so,  led  away  by 
the  intense  enjoyment  he  found  in  these  pleasant  fancies,  he 
set  himself  forthwith  to  put  his  scheme  into  execution. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  clean  up  some  armor  that  had 
belonged  to  his  great-grandfather,  and  had  been  for  ages  lying 
forgotten  in  a  corner  eaten  with  rust  and  covered  with  mildew. 
He  scoured  and  polished  it  as  best  he  could,  but  he  perceived 
one  great  defect  in  it,  that  it  had  no  closed  helmet,  nothing 
but  a  simple  morion.*^  This  deficiency,  however,  his  ingenuity 
supplied,  for  he  contrived  a  kind  of  half-helmet  of  pasteboard 
which,  fitted  on  to  the  morion,  looked  like  a  whole  one.  It  is 
true  that,  in  order  to  see  if  it  Avas  strong  and  fit  to  stand  a 
cut,  he  drew  his  sword  and  gave  it  a  couple  of  slashes,  the 
first  of  Avhich  undid  in  an  instant  what  had  taken  him  a  week 

'  Ganc4on,  the  arch-traitor  of  the  Charlemagne  legend.  In  Spanish  lie 
appears  as  Galalon,  in  Italian  as  Gano ;  but  in  this  as  in  the  cases  of  Ko- 
lanrl,  Baldwin,  and  others,  I  have  thought  it  best  to  give  the  name  in  the 
form  in  which  it  is  best  known,  and  will  be  most  readily  recognized,  in- 
stead of  Koldan,  Valdovinos,  etc. 

*  Like  Reinaldos  or  Kinaldo,  who  came  to  be  Emperor  of  Trebizond. 

^  That  is,  a  simple  head-piece  without  either  visor  or  beaver. 


CHAPTER    I.  5 

to  do.  The  ease  with  which  he  liad  knocked  it  to  pieces  dis- 
concerted him  somewhat,  and  to  guavd  against  that  danger  he 
set  to  work  again,  fixing  bars  of  iron  on  the  inside  until  he 
was  satisiied  Avith  its  strength ;  and  then,  not  caring  to  try 
any  more  experiments  Avith  it,  he  passed  it  and  adopted  it  as  a 
helmet  of  the  most  jjerfect  construction. 

He  next  proceeded  to  inspect  his  hack,  which,  with  more 
quartos  than  a  real  ^  and  more  blemishes  than  the  steed  of 
Gonela,  that  "  tantum  pcUls  at  ossa  fult,'^  surpassed  in  his 
eyes  the  Bucephalus  of  Alexander  or  the  Babieca  of  the  Cid. 
Four  days  were  spent  in  thinking  what  name  to  give  him, 
because  (as  he  said  to  himself)  if  Avas  not  right  that  a  horse 
belonging  to  a  knight  so  famous,  and  one  Avith  such  inerits 
of  his  OAAai,  should  be  A\^ithout  some  distinctive  name,  and 
he  strove  to  adapt  it  so  as  to  indicate  Avhat  he  had  been 
before  belonging  to  a  knight-errant,  and  Avhat  he  then  Avas ; 
for  it  was  only  reasonable  that,  his  master  taking  a  ncAV 
character,  he  should  take  a  ncAv  name,  and  that  it  sliould 
be  a  distinguished  and  full-sounding  one,  befitting  the  ncAV 
order  and  calling  he  Avas  about  to  folloAV.  And  so,  after 
having  composed,  struck  out,  rejected,  added  to,  unmade,  and 
remade  a  multitude  of  names  out  of  his  memory  and  fancy,  he 
decided  upon  calling  him  Rocinante,  a  name,  to  his  thinking, 
lofty,  sonorous,  and  significant  of  his  condition  as  a  hack  be- 
fore he  became  what  he  now  Avas,  the  first  and  foremost  of  all 
the  hacks  in  the  Avorld.- 

Having  got  a  name  for  his  horse  so  much  to  his  taste,  he 
Avas  anxious  to  get  one  for  himself,  and  he  Avas  eight  days 
more  pondering  over  this  point,  till  at  last  he  made  up  liis 
mind   to    call    himself    Don    Quixote,^   whence,   as    has    been 

'  An  untranslatable  pun  on  the  Avord  "  quarto,"  which  means  a  sand- 
crack  in  a  horse's  hoof,  as  well  as  the  coin  equal  to  one-eighth  of  the 
real.  Gonela,  or  Gonnella,  was  a  jester  in  the  service  of  Borso,  Duke 
of  Ferrara  (1450-1470).  A  book  of  the  jests  attributed  to  him  was 
printed  in  1568,  the  year  before  Cervantes  went  to  Italy. 

^"liocin"  is  a  horse  employed  in  labor,  as  distinguished  from  one  kept 
for  ijleasure,  the  chase,  or  personal  use  generally ;  the  word  therefore 
may  fairly  be  translated  "  hack."  "  Ante  "  is  an  old  form  of  "  Antes  " 
=  "  before,"  whether  in  time  or  in  order. 

^Quixote  — or,  as  it  is  now  written,  Quijote  —  means  the  piece  of 
armor  that  protects  the  thigh  (cuissan,  cirish).  Smollett's  "  Sir  Lancelot 
Greaves  "  is  a  kind  of  parody  on  the  name.  Quixada  and  Quesada  Avere 
both  distinguished  family  names.  The  Governor  of  the  Goletta,  who 
was  one  of  the  passengers  on  board  the  unfortunate  Sol  galley,  was  a 
Quesada;  and  the  faithful  major-domo  of  Charles  V.  and'guardian  of 
Don  John  of  Austria  was  a  Qixada. 


6  DON    QUIXOTE. 

already  said,  the  authors  of  this  veracious  liistorv  have  in- 
ferred tliat  his  name  must  have  been  beyond  a  doubt  Quixada, 
and  not  Quesada  as  others  wouhl  have  it.  Recollecting,  how- 
ever, that  the  valiant  Amadis  was  not  content  to  call  himself 
curtly  Amadis  and  nothing  more,  but  added  the  name  of  his 
kingdom  and  country  to  make  it  famous,  and  called  himself 
Amadis  of  Gaul,  he,  like  a  good  knight,  resolved  to  add 
on  the  name  of  his,  and  to  style  himself  Don  Quixote  of 
La  Mancha,  whereby,  he  considered,  he  described  accurately 
his  origin  and  country,  and  did  honor  to  it  in  taking  his 
siirname  from  it. 

So  then,  his  armor  being  furbished,  his  morion  turned  into 
a  helmet,  his  hack  christened,  and  he  himself  confirmed,  he 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  nothing  more  was  needed  now  but 
to  look  out  for  a  lady  to  be  in  love  with ;  for  a  knight-errant 
Avithout  love  was  like  a  tree  without  leaves  or  fndt,  or  a  body 
without  a  soul.  As  he  said  to  himself,  ''  If,  for  my  sins,  or 
by  my  good  fortune,  I  come  across  some  giant  hereabouts,  a 
common  occurrence  with  knights-errant,  and  overthrow  him 
in  one  onslaught,  or  cleave  him  asunder  to  the  Avaist,  or,  in 
short,  vanquish  and  subdue  him,  will  it  not  be  well  to  have 
some  one  I  may  send  him  to  as  a  present,  that  he  may  come 
in  and  fall  on  his  knees  before  my  sweet  lady,  and  in  a 
hinnble,  submissive  voice  say,  '  I  am  the  giant  Caraculiambro, 
lord  of  the  island  of  Malindrania,  vanquished  in  single  com- 
bat ])y  the  never  sufficiently  extolled  knight  Don  Quixote  of 
La  ]\[ancha,  avIio  has  commanded  me  to  present  myself  before 
your  Grace,  that  yoiir  Highness  dispose  of  me  at  your  j^leas- 
ure  ? '  "  Oh,  how  our  good  gentleman  enjoyed  the  delivery 
of  this  speech,  especially  when  he  had  thought  of  some  one 
to  call  his  Lady  !  There  was,  so  the  story  goes,  in  a  village 
near  his  own  a  very  good-looking  farm  girl  with  whom  he  had 
been  at  one  time  in  love,  though,  so  far  as  is  known,  she 
never  knew  it  nor  gave  a  thought  to  the  matter.  Her  name 
was  Aldonza  Lorenzo,  and  upon  her  he  thought  fit  to  confer 
the  title  of  Lady  of  his  Thoughts ;  and  after  some  search  for 
a  name  which  should  not  be  out  of  harmony  with  her  own, 
and  should  suggest  and  indicate  that  of  a  princess  and  great 
lady,  he  decided  upon  calling  her  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  —  she 
being  of  El  Toboso  —  a  name,  to  his  mind,  musical,  uncom- 
mon, and  significant,  like  all  those  he  had  already  bestowed 
upon  himself  and  the  things  belonging  to  him. 


CHAPTER    11. 


CHAPTER    II. 

WHICH     TREATS     OF      THE      FIRST     SALLY     THE     INGENIOUS 
DON    QUIXOTE    MADE    FROM    HOME. 

These  preliminaries  settled,  he  did  not  care  to  pnt  oft'  any 
longer  tlie  execution  of  liis  design,  urged  on  to  it  by  the 
thought  of  all  the  world  was  losing  by  his  delay,  seeing  what 
wrongs  he  intended  to  right,  grievances  to  redress,  injustices 
to  repair,  abuses  to  remove,  and  duties  to  discharge.  So,  with- 
out giving  notice  of  his  intention  to  any  one,  and  without  any- 
body seeing  him,  one  morning  before  the  dawning  of  the  day 
(which  was  one  of  the  hottest  of  the  month  of  July)  he 
donned  his  suit  of  armor,  mounted  Rocinante  with  his  patched- 
up  helmet  on,  braced  his  buckler,  took  his  lance,  and  by  the 
back  door  of  the  yard  sallied  forth  upon  the  plain  in  the 
highest  contentment  and  satisfaction  at  seeing  with  what  ease 
he  had  made  a  beginning  with  his  grand  purpose.  But  scarcely 
did  he  find  himself  upon  the  open  plain,  when  a  terrible  thought 
struck  him,  one  all  but  enough  to  make  him  abandon  the  en- 
terprise at  the  very  outset.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had 
not  been  dubbed  a  knight,  and  that  according  to  the  law  of 
chivalry  he  neither  could  nor  ought  to  bear  arms  against  any 
knight ;  and  that  even  if  he  had  been,  still  he  ought,  as  a  novice 
knight,  to  wear  white  armor,^  without  a  device  upon  the  shield 
until  by  his  prowess  he  had  earned  one.  These  reflections 
made  him  waver  in  his  purpose,  but  his  craze  being  stronger 
than  any  reasoning  he  made  up  his  mind  to  have  himself 
dubbed  a  knight  by  the  first  one  he  came  across,  following  the 
example  of  others  in  the  same  case,  as  he  had  read  in  the  books 
that  brought  him  to  this  pass.  As  for  white  armor,  he  resolved, 
on  the  first  opportunity,  to  scour  his  until  it  was  whiter  than 
an  ermine  ;  and  so  comforting  himself  he  pursued  his  way, 
taking  that  which  his  horse  chose,  for  in  this  he  believed  lay 
the  essence  of  adventures. 

Thus  setting  out,  our  new-fledged  -  adventurer  paced  along, 
talking  to  himself  and  saying,  "  Who  knows  but  that  in  time 

'  Properly  "  blank  "  armor,  l)ut  Don  Quixote  takes  the  word  in  its  com- 
mon sense  of  white. 

*  Flamante.  Shelton  translates  "  burnished,"  and  Jervas  "  fiaiuing," 
but  the  secondary  meaning  of  the  word  is  "new,"  "fresh,"  "unused." 


8  DON    QUIXOTE. 

to  come,  when  the  veracious  history  of  my  famous  deeds  is 
made  known,  the  sage  who  writes  it,  when  he  has  to  set  forth 
my  first  sally  in  the  early  morning,  will  do  it  after  this 
fashion  '.'  '  Scarce  had  the  rubicund  Apollo  spread  o'er  the  face 
of  the  broad  spacious  earth  the  golden  threads  of  his  bright 
hair,  scarce  had  the  little  birds  of  painted  plumage  attuned 
their  notes  to  hail  with  dulcet  and  mellifluous  harmony  the 
coming  of  the  rosy  Dawn,  that,  deserting  the  soft  couch  of  her 
jealous  spouse,  was  appearing  to  mortals  at  the  gates  and 
balconies  of  the  Manchegan  horizon,  when  the  renowned 
knight  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  quitting  the  lazy  down, 
mounted  his  celebrated  steed  Rocinante  and  began  to  traverse 
the  ancient  and  famous  Campo  de  Montiel ; '  "  which  in  fact  he 
was  actually  traversing.^  "  Happy  the  age,  happy  the  time," 
he  continired,  "  in  which  shall  be  made  known  my  deeds  of 
fame,  A\^orthy  to  be  moulded  in  brass,  carved  in  marble,  limned 
in  pictures,  for  a  memorial  forever.  And  thou,  O  sage  magi- 
cian,^ whoever  thou  art,  to  whom  it  shall  fall  to  be  the 
chronicler  of  this  wondrous  history,  forget  not,  I  entreat  thee, 
my  good  Eocinante,  the  constant  companion  of  my  ways  and 
wanderings."  Presently  he  broke  out  again,  as  if  he  were 
love-stricken  in  earnest,  "  0  Princess  Dvdcinea,  lady  of  this 
captive  heart,  a  grievous  wrong  hast  thou  done  me  to  drive  me 
forth  with  scorn,  and  with  inexorable  obduracy  banish  me  from 
the  presence  of  thy  beauty.  0  lady,  deign  to  hold  in  remem- 
brance this  heart,  thy  vassal,  that  thus  in  anguish  pines  for 
love  of  thee." 

So  he  Avent  on  stringing  together  these  and  other  absurdities, 
all  in  the  style  of  those  his  books  had  taught  him,  imitating 
their  language  as  well  as  he  could  ;  and  all  the  while  he  rode 
so  slowly  and  the  sun  mounted  so  rapidly  and  with  such  fervor 
that  it  was  enough  to  melt  his  brains  if  he  had  any.  Nearly 
all  day  he  travelled  without  anything  remarkable  happening 
to  him,  at  which  he  was  in  despair,  for  he  was  anxious  to  en- 
counter some  one  at  once  upon  whom  to  try  the  might  of  his 
strong  arm. 

^  The  Campo  de  Montiel  was  "  famoiis "'  as  being  the  scene  of  the 
battle,  in  13G9,  in  whicli  Pedro  tlie  Cruel  was  defeated  by  his  brother 
Henry  of  Trastamara  supported  hy  Dii  Guesclin.  The  actual  battle-field, 
however,  lies  some  considerable  distance  to  the  south  of  Argamasilla,  on 
the  slope  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  near  the  castle  of  Montiel  in  which  Pedro 
took  refuge. 

■■'  In  the  later  romances  of  chivalrj',  a  sage  or  a  magician  or  sojne  such 
personage  was  frequently  introduced  as  the  original  source  of  the  history. 


CHAPTER    IT.  9 

Writers  there  are  who  say  tlie  first  adventure  he  met  with 
was  that  of  Puerto  Lapice ;  others  say  it  was  that  of  the 
windmills ;  but  what  I  have  ascertained  on  this  point,  and 
what  I  have  found  written  in  the  annals  of  La  Maneha,  is 
that  he  was  on  the  road  all  day,  and  towards  nightfall  his 
hack  and  he  found  themselves  dead  tired  and  hungry,  when, 
looking  all  aroimd  to  see  if  he  could  discover  any  castle  or 
shepherd's  shanty  where  he  might  refresh  himself  and  relieve 
his  sore  wants,  he  perceived  not  far  out  of  his  road  an  inn,' 
which  was  welcome  as  a  star  giuding  him  to  the  portals,  if  not 
the  palaces,  of  his  redemption ;  and  quickening  Ins  pace  he 
reached  it  just  as  night  was  setting  in.  At  the  door  were 
standing  two  young  women,  girls  of  the  district  as  they  call 
them,  on  their  way  to  Seville  with  some  carriers  who  had 
chanced  to  halt  that  night  at  the  inn ;  and  as,  happen  what 
might  to  our  adventurer,  everything  he  saw  or  imagined 
seemed  to  him  to  be  and  to  happen  after  the  fashion  of  what 
he  had  read  of,  the  moment  he  saw  the  inn  he  pictured  it  to 
himself  as  a  castle  with  its  four  turrets  and  pinnacles  of  shin- 
ing silver,  not  forgetting  the  drawbridge  and  moat  and  all  the 
belongings  iisually  ascribed  to  castles  of  the  sort.  To  this 
iini,  which  to  him  seemed  a  castle,  he  advanced,  and  at  a  short 
distance  from  it  he  checked  Rocinante,  hoping  that  some 
dwarf  would  show  himself  upon  the  battlements,  and  by  sound 
of  trumpet  give  notice  that  a  knight  was  approaching  the 
castle.  But  seeing  that  they  were  slow  about  it,  and  that 
Rocinante  was  in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  stable,  he  made  for  the 
inn  door,  and  perceived  the  two  gay  damsels  who  were  standing 
there,  and  who  seemed  to  him  to  be  two  fair  maidens  or  lovely 
ladies  taking  their  ease  at  the  castle  gate. 

At  this  moment  it  so  happened  that  a  swineherd  who  was 
going  through  the  stubbles  collecting  a  drove  of  pigs  (for, 
without  any  apology,  that  is  what  they  are  called)  gave  a  blast 
of  his  horn  to  bring  them  together,  and  forthwith  it  seemed 

'  In  Spain  there  are  at  least  half  a  dozen  varieties  of  inns  each  Avith  its 
distinctive  name,  in  Don.  Quixote  the  inn  is  almost  always  the  venta^  tiie 
solitary  roadside  inn  where  travellers  of  all  sorts  stop  to  bait;  and  it  lias 
remained  to  this  day  ninch  what  Cervantes  has  described.  The  particular 
venta  that  he  had  in  his  eye  in  this  and  the  next  chapter  is  said  to  be  the 
Venta  de  Quesada,  about  2\  leagues  north  of  Manzanares,  on  the  Madrid 
and  Seville  road.  (  V.  map.)  The  house  itself  was  burned  down  about  a 
century  ago,  and  lias  been  rebuilt,  but  the  yard  at  the  back  with  its  draw- 
well  and  stone  trough  arc  said  to  remain  as  they  were  in  his  day. 


10  DON    QUIXOTE. 

to  Don  Quixote  to  be  what  lie  was  expecting,  tlie  signal  of 
some  dwarf  announcing  liis  arrival ;  and  so  with  prodigious 
satisfaction  he  rode  up  to  the  inn  and  to  the  ladies,  who,  see- 
ing a  man  of  this  sort  approaching  in  full  armor  and  with 
lance  and  bxickler,  were  turning  in  dismay  into  the  inn,  when 
Don  Quixote,  guessing  their  fear  by  their  flight,  raising  his 
pasteboard  visor,  disclosed  his  dry,  dusty  visage,'  and  with 
courteous  bearing  and  gentle  voi^e  addressed  them,  "  Your 
ladyships  need  not  fly  or  fear  any  rudeness,  for  that  it  belongs 
not  to  the  order  of  knighthood  which  I  profess  to  offer  to  any 
one,  much  less  to  high-born  maidens  as  your  appearance  pro- 
claims you  to  be."  Tlie  girls  were  looking  at  him  and  strain- 
ing their  eyes  to  make  out  the  features  which  the  clumsy  visor 
obscured,  ]iut  when  they  heard  themselves  called  maidens,  a 
thing  so  much  out  of  their  line,  they  could  not  restrain  their 
laughter,  which  made  Don  Quixote  wax  indignant,  and  say, 
"  Modesty  becomes  the  fair,  and  moreover  laughter  that  has 
little  cause  is  great  silliness ;  this,  however,  I  say  not  to  pain 
or  anger  you,  for  my  desire  is  none  other  than  to  serve  you." 

The  incomprehensible  language  and  the  unpromising  looks 
of  our  cavalier  only  increased  the  ladies'  laughter,  and  that 
increased  his  irritation,  and  matters  might  have  gone  farther 
if  at  that  moment  the  landlord  had  not  come  out,  who,  being 
a  very  fat  man,  was  a  very  peaceful  one.  He,  seeing  this 
grotesque  figure  clad  in  armor  that  did  not  match  any  more 
than  his  saddle,  bridle,  lance,  buckler,  or  corselet,  was  not  at 
all  indisposed  to  join  the  damsels  in  their  manifestations  of 
amusement ;  but,  in  truth,  standing  in  awe  of  such  a  compli- 
cated armament,  he  thought  it  best  to  speak  him  fairly,  so  he 
said,  "  Seiior  Caballero,  if  your  worship  wants  lodging,  bating 
the  bed  (for  there  is  not  one  in  the  inn)  there  is  plenty  of 
everything  else  here."  Don  Quixote,  observing  the  respectful 
bearing  of  the  Alcaide  of  the  fortress  (for  so  innkeeper  and  inn 
seemed  in  liis  eyes),  made  answer,  "  Sir  Castellan,  for  me  any- 
thing will  suffice,  for 

"  My  armor  is  my  only  wear, 
My  only  rest  the  fra_y." 

'  The  commentators  are  somewhat  exercised  by  the  contradiction  here. 
If  Don  Quixote  raised  Ids  visor  and  disclosed  his  visage,  how  was  it  that 
the  girls  were  unable  "  to  make  out  the  features  wliich  the  clumsy  visor 
obscured"?  CerA'antes  probably  was  thinking  of  the  make-shift  paste- 
board visor  {mala  visera,  as  he  calls  it),  which  could  not  be  put  up 
completely,  and  so  kept  the  face  behind  it  in  the  shade.  Hartzenbusch, 
however,  believes  the  words  to  have  been  interpolated,  and  omits  tliem. 


CHAPTER    II.  11 

The  host  fancied  he  called  hiin  Castellan  because  he  took  him 
for  a  ''  worthy  of  Castile,"  ^  though  he  was  in  fact  an  Andalu- 
sian,  and  one  from  the  Strand  of  San  Lucar,  as  crafty  a  thief 
as  Casus  and  as  full  of  tricks  as  a  student  or  a  page.  "  In 
that  case,"  said  he, 

"  Your  bed  is  on  the  flinty  rock, 
Your  sleep  to  watch  alway ;  * 

and  if  so,  you  may  dismount  and  safely  reckon  upon  any 
quantity  of  sleeplessness  under  this  roof  for  a  twelvemonth, 
not  to  say  for  a  single  night."  So  saying,  he  advanced  to  hold 
the  stirrup  for  Don  Quixote,  who  got  down  with  great  difficulty 
and  exertion  (for  he  had  nut  broken  his  fast  all  day),  and  then 
charged  the  host  to  take  great  care  of  his  horse  as  he  was  the 
best  bit  of  flesh  that  ever  ate  bread  in  this  world.  The  land- 
lord eyed  him  over,  but  did  not  find  him  as  good  as  Don 
Quixote  said,  nor  even  half  as  good,  and  putting  him  up  in  the 
stable,  he  returned  to  see  what  jnight  be  wanted  by  his  guest, 
whom  the  damsels,  who  had  by  this  time  made  their  peace 
with  him,  were  now  relieving  of  his  armor.  They  had  taken 
off  his  breastplate  and  backpiece,'  but  they  neither  knew  nor 
saw  how  to  open  his  gorget  or  remove  his  make-shift  helmet, 
for  he  had  fastened  it  with  green  ribbons,  which,  as  there  was 
no  untying  the  knots,  required  to  be  cut.  This,  however,  he 
would  not  by  any  means  consent  to,  so  he  remained  all  the 
evening  with  his  helmet  on,  the  drollest  and  oddest  figure  that 
can  be  imagined ;   and  while   they  were  removing  his  armor, 

^  Satio  de  Castilla — -a  shmg  phrase  from  tlie  Gerraania  dialect  for  a 
thief  in  disguise  {ladron  disiin iilado  —  Vocabulario  de  Gemiania  de 
Hidalgo).  "Castellano"  and  "  alcaide  "  botli  mean  governor  of  a  castle 
or  fortress,  but  the  former  means  also  a  Castilian. 

*  The  lines  quoted  by  Don  Quixote  and  tlie  host  are,  in  the  original : 

"  Mis  arreos  son  las  armas. 
Mi  descanso  el  pelear, 
Mi  cania,  las  duras  peiias, 
Mi  dormir,  siempre  velar." 

They  occur  first  in  the  old,  probably  fourteenth  century,  ballad  of  Mori- 
ana  en  un  Castillo.,  and  were  afterwards  adopted  as  the  ])eginning  of  a 
serenade.  In  England  it  would  be  a  daring  improbability  to  represent  the 
landlord  of  a  roadside  alehouse  capping  verses  witli  his  guest  out  of 
Chevy  Chase  or  Sir  Andrew  Barton,  l)ut  in  Spain  familiarity  with  the 
old  national  ballad-poetry  and  proverbs  is  an  accomplishment  that  may, 
even  to  this  day,  be  met  with  in  quarters  quite  as  unpromising. 


12  DON    QUIXOTE. 

taking  the  baggages  who  Avere  about  it  for  ladies  of  high 
degree  belonging  to  the  castle,  he  said  to  them  with  great 
sprightliness  : 

"  Oh,  never,  surely,  was  there  knight 

So  served  by  hand  of  dame. 
As  served  was  he,  Don  Quixote  hight, 

When  from  his  town  he  came ; 
With  maidens  waiting  on  himself, 

Princesses  on  his  hack  '  — 

—  or  Rocinante,  or  that,  ladies  mine,  is  my  horse's  name,  and 
Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  is  my  own ;  for  though  I  had  no 
intention  of  declaring  myself  until  my  achievements  in  your 
service  and  honor  had  made  me  known,  the  necessity  of  adapt- 
ing that  old  ballad  of  Lancelot  to  the  present  occasion  has 
given  you  the  knowledge  of  my  name  altogether  prematurely. 
A  time,  however,  will  come  for  your  ladyships  to  command 
and  me  to  obey,  and  then  the  might  of  my  arm  will  show  my 
desire  to  serve  you." 

The  girls,  who  were  not  used  to  hearing  rhetoric  of  this 
sort,  had  nothing  to  say  in  reply :  they  only  asked  him  if  he 
wanted  anything  to  eat.  "  I  would  gladly  eat  a  bit  of  some- 
thing," said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  I  feel  it  would  come  very  sea- 
sonably." The  day  happened  to  be  a  Friday,  and  in  the 
whole  inn  there  was  nothing  but  some  pieces  of  the  fish  they 
call  in  Castile  "  abadejo,"  in  Andalusia  "  bacallao,"  and  in 
some  places  "  curadillo,"  and  in  others  "  troutlet ;  "  so  they 
asked  him  if  he  thought  he  could  eat  troutlet,  for  there  was 
no  other  fish  to  give  him.  "  If  there  be  troutlets  enough," 
said  Don  Quixote,  "  they  will  be  the  same  thing  as  a  trout ; 
for  it  is  all  one  to  me  whether  I  am  given  eight  reals  in 
small  change  or  a  piece  of  eight ;  moreover,  it  may  be  that 
these  troutlets  are  like  veal,  which  is  better  than  beef,  or 
kid,  which  is  better  than  goat.  But  whatever  it  be  let  it 
come  quickly,  for  the  burden  and  pressure  of  arms  cannot 
be  borne  without  support  to  the  inside."  They  laid  a  table 
for  him  at  the  door  of  the  i:in  for  the  sake  of  the  air,  and 
the  host  brought  him  a  portion  of  ill-soaked  and  worse 
cooked  stockfish,  and  a  piece  of  bread  as  black  and  mouldy 
as  his  own  armor;  but  a  laughable  sight  it  Avas  to  see  him 

'  A  parody  of  the  opening  lines  of  the  ballad  of  Lancelot  of  the  Lake. 
Their  chief  attraction  for  Cervantes  was,  no  doubt,  the  occurrence  of 
rocino  Qrocin)  in  the  last  line. 


CHAPTER    lit.  IB 

eating,  for  having  his  helmet  on  and  the  beaver  np,^  he  could 
not  with  his  own  hands  put  anything  into  his  mouth  unless 
some  one  else  placed  it  there,  and  this  service  one  of  the 
ladies  rendered  him.  But  to  give  him  anything  to  drink  was 
impossible,  or  would  have  been  so  had  not  the  landlord  bored  a 
reed,  and  putting  one  end  in  his  mouth  poured  the  wine  into 
him  through  the  other  ;  all  which  he  bore  with  patience  rather 
than  sever  the  ribbons  of  his  helmet. 

AVhile  this  was  going  on  there  came  up  to  the  inn  a  pig- 
gelder,  who,  as  he  approached,  sounded  his  reed  pipe  four  or 
five  times,  and  thereby  completely  convinced  Don  Quixote  that 
he  was  in  some  famous  castle,  and  that  they  were  regaling  him 
with  music,  and  that  the  stockfish  Avas  trout,  the  bread  the 
whitest,  the  wenches  ladies,  and  the  landlord  the  castellan  of 
the  castle  ;  and  consequently  he  held  that  liis  enterprise  and 
sally  had  been  to  some  purpose.  But  still  it  distressed  him  to 
think  he  had  not  been  dubbed  a  knight,  for  it  was  plain  to  him 
he  could  not  lawfully  engage  in  any  adventure  Avithout  receiv- 
ing the  order  of  knighthootl. 


CHAPTER    III. 

WHEREIN  IS  RELATED  THE  DROLL  WAY  l^  WHICH    DOX  QUIXOTE 
HAD    HIMSELF    DUBBED    A    KXIGHT. 

Harassed  by  this  reflection,  he  made  haste  with  his  scanty 
pothouse  supper,'^  and  having  finished  it  called  the  landlord, 
and  shutting  himself  into  the  stable  Avith  him,  fell  on  his 
knees  before  him,  saying,  "  From  this  spot  I  rise  not,  valiant 
knight,  until  your  courtesy  grants  me  the  boon  I  seek,  one  that 
will  redound  to  your  praise  and  the  benefit  of  the  luima;i 
race."  The  laiuUord,  seeing  his  guest  at  his  feet  and  hearing 
a  speech  of  this  kind,  stood  staring  at  him  in  bewilderment, 
not  knowing  Avhat  to  do  or  say,  and  entreating  him  to  rise, 
but  all  to  no  purpose  until  he  had  agreed  to  grant  the  boon 

'  Tlie  original  has,  la  visera  nlzada,  "the  vi.soruj),"  inwhicli  case  Don 
Quixote  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in  feeding  himself.  Ilartzenbusch 
suggests  hahera^  heaver,  which  I  have  adopted,  as  it  removes  the  difficulty, 
and  is  consistent  with  what  follows;  when  the  landlord  "poured  wine 
into  him "'  it  must  have  been  over  the  beaver,  not  under  the  visor. 

^"  Pothouse"  —  venterili  i.e.  such  as  only  a  venta  could  produce. 


14  DON    QT^IXOTE. 

demanded  of  him.  '•  I  looked  for  no  less,  my  lord,  from  your 
High  Magnificence,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  and  I  have  to  tell 
you  that  the  boon  I  have  asked  and  your  liberality  has  granted 
is  that  yoii  shall  dub  me  knight  to-morrow  morning,  and  that 
to-night  I  shall  watch  my  arms  in  the  chapel  of  this  your 
castle ;  thus  to-morrow,  as  I  have  said,  will  be  accomplished 
what  I  so  much  desire,  enabling  me  lawfully  to  roam  through 
all  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  seeking  adventures  on  behalf 
of  those  in  distress,  as  is  the  duty  of  chivalry  and  of  knights- 
errant  like  myself,  whose  ambition  is  directed  to  such  deeds." 
The  landlord,  who,  as  has  been  mentioned,  was  something  of 
a  wag,  and  had  already  some  suspicion  of  -his  guest's  want  of 
wits,  was  quite  convinced  of  it  on  hearing  talk  of  this  kind 
from  him,  and  to  make  sport  for  the  night  he  determined  to 
fall  in  with  his  humor.  80  he  told  him  he  was  quite  right  in 
pursuing  the  object  he  had  in  view,  and  that  such  a  motive 
was  natural  and  becoming  in  cavaliers  as  distinguished  as  he 
seemed  and  his  gallant  bearing  showed  him  to  be ;  and  that  he 
himself  in  his  younger  days  had  followed  the  same  honorable 
calling,  roaming  in  quest  of  adventures  in  various  parts  of  the 
world,  among  others  the  Curing-grounds  of  Malaga,  the  Isles 
of  Riarau,  the  Precinct  of  Seville,  the  Little  INIarket  of  Sego- 
via, the  Olivera  of  Valencia,  the  Rondilla  of  Granada,  the 
Strand  of  San  Lucar,  the  Colt  of  Cordova,  the  Taverns  of 
Toledo,^  and  divers  other  quarters,  where  he  had  proved  the 
nimbleness  of  his  feet  and  the  lightness  of  his  fingers,  doing 
many  wrongs,  cheating  many  widows,  ruining  maids  and 
swindling  minors,  and  in  short,  bringing  himself  under  the 
notice  of  almost  every  tribunal  and  court  of  justice  in  Spain ; 
until  at  last  he  had  retired  to  this  castle  of  his,  where  he  was 

'  The  localities  here  mentioned  were,  and  some  of  them  still  are,  haunts 
of  the  rogue  and  vagabond,  or,  «hat  would  be  called  in  Spain,  the  picaro 
class.  The  Curing-grounds  of  Malaga  was  a  place  outside  the  town  where 
fish  was  dried ;  "  the  Isles  of  Riaran  "  was  the  slang  name  of  a  low  suburb 
of  the  same  city ;  the  Precinct  (compas)  of  Seville  was  a  district  on  the 
river  side,  not  far  from  the  plaza  de  toros ;  the  Little  Market  of  Segovia 
was  in  the  hollow  spanned  by  the  great  aqueduct  on  the  south  side  of 
the  town  ;  the  Olivera  of  Valencia  was  a  small  plaza  in  the  middle  of  the 
tuwn;  the  "Rondilla  of  Granada"  was  probably  in  the  Albaycin  quarter; 
the  "  Strand  of  San  Lucar  "  and  the  "  Taverns  of  Toledo  "  explain  them- 
selves sutficiently  ;  and  the  "  Colt  of  Cordova  "  was  a  district  on  the  south 
side  of  the  city,  which  took  its  name  from  a  horse  in  stone  standing  over 
a  fountain  in  its  centre.  As  Fermin  Caballero  says  in  a  queer  little  book 
called  the  Geographical  Knowledge  of  Cervantes,  it  is  clear  that  Cervantes 
knew  by  heart  the  "  Mapa  picaresco  de  Espaiia." 


CHAPTER    in.  15 

living  upon  his  property  and  ii})()n  that  of  others;  and  wlicrc 
he  received  all  knights-errant,  of  whatever  rank  or  condition 
they  might  be,  all  for  the  great  love  he  bore  them  and  that, 
they  might  share  their  substance  with  him  in  return  for  his 
benevolence.     He  told  him,  moreover,  that  in  this  castle  of  his 
there  was  no  chapel  in  which  he  could  watch  his  armor,  as  it 
had  been  pulled  clown  in  order  to  be  rebuilt,  but  that  in  a  case 
of  necessity  it  might,  he  knew,  be  watched  anywhere,  and  he 
might  watch  it  that  night  in  a  courtyard  of  the  castle,  and  in 
the  morning,  God  willing,  the  requisite  ceremonies  might  be  })er- 
formed  so  as  to  have  him  dubbed  a  knight,  and  so  thor(.)ughly 
dubbed  that  nobody  could  be  more  so.     He  asked  if  he  had 
any  money  with  him,  to  which  Don  Quixote  replied  that  he 
had  not  a  farthing,^  as  in  the  histories  of  knights-errant  he 
had  never  read  of  any  of  them  carrying  any.     On  this  point 
the  landlord  told  him  he  was  mistaken ;  for,  though  not  re- 
corded in  the  histories,  because  in  the  author's  opinion  there 
was  no  need  to  mention  anything  so  obvious  and  necessary  as 
money  and  clean  shirts,  it  was  not  to  be  supposed  thei-efore 
that  they  did  not  carry  them,  and  he  might  regard  it  as  certain 
and  established  that   all    knights-errant   (about  wdiom   there 
were  so  many  full  and  impeachable  books)  carried  well-fur- 
nished purses  in  case  of  emergency,  and  likewise  carried  shirts 
and  a  little  box  of  ointment  to  cure  the  wounds  they  received. 
For  in  those  plains  and  deserts  where  they  engaged  in  combat 
and  came  out  wounded,  it  was  not  always  that  there  was  some 
one  to  cure  them,  unless  indeed  they  had  for  a  friend  some 
sage  magician  to  succor  them  at  once  by  fetching  through  the 
air  upon  a  cloud  some  damsel  or  dwarf  with  a  vial  of  Avater  of 
such  virtue  that  by  tasting  one  drop  of  it  they  Avere  cured  of 
their  hurts  and  wounds  in  an  instant  and  left  as  sound  as  if 
they  had  not  received  any  damage  whatever.     But  in  case  this 
should  not  occur,  the  knights  of  old  took  care  to  see  that  their 
squires  were  provided  with  money  and  other  requisites,  such 
as  lint  and  ointments  for  healing  purposes ;  and  when  it  haj)- 
pened  that  knights  had  no   squires   (which  was   rarely   and 
seldom  the  case)  they  themselves  carried  everything  in   cun- 
ning saddle-bags  that  were  hardly  seen  on  the  horse's  croup,  as 
if  it  were  soiuething  else  of  more  importance,"  because,  unless 

■  In  the  original,  b/anca,  a  coin  wortli  about  one-seventh  of  a  farthing. 

^  The  passage  as  it  stands  is  sheer  nonsense.     Clemencin  tries  to  make 

sense  of  it  by  substituting  "  less  "  for  "  more ;  "  but  even  with  that  emen- 


16  DON    QUIXOTE. 

for  some  sncli  reason,  carrying  saddle-bags  was  not  very  favor- 
ably regarded  among  kniglits-errant.  He  therefore  advised  him 
(and,  as  his  godson  so  soon  to  be,  he  might  even  command 
him)  never  from  that  time  forth  to  travel  without  money  and 
the  usual  requirements,  and  he  would  find  the  advantage  of 
them  when  he  least  expected  it. 

Don  Quixote  promised  to  follow  his  advice  scrupulously,  and 
it  was  arranged  forthwith  that  he  should  watch  his  armor  in  a 
large  yard  at  one  side  of  the  inn ;  so,  collecting  it  all  together, 
Don  Quixote  placed  it  on  a  trough  that  stood  by  the  side  of  a 
well,  and  bracing  his  buckler  on  his  ami  he  grasped  his  lance 
and  began  with  a  stately  air  to  march  up  and  down  in  front  of 
the  trough,  and  as  he  l)egan  his  march  night  began  to  fall. 

The  landlord  told  all  the  people  who  were  in  the  inn  about 
the  craze  of  his  guest,  the  watching  of  the  armor,  and  the  did> 
bing  ceremony  he  contemi)lated.  Full  of  wonder  at  so  strange 
a  form  of  madness,  they  flocked  to  see  it  from  a  distance,  and 
observed  with  what  composure  he  sometimes  paced  up  and 
down,  or  sometimes,  leaning  on  his  lance,  gazed  on  his  armor 
without  taking  his  eyes  oft'  it  for  ever  so  long ;  and  as  the  night 
closed  in  with  a  light  from  the  moon  so  brilliant  that  it  might 
vie  with  his  that  lent  it,  everything  the  novice  knight  did  was 
plainly  seen  by  all. 

Meanwhile  one  of  the  carriers  who  were  in  the  inn  thought 
fit  to  water  his  team,  and  it  was  necessary  to  remove  Don 
Quixote's  armor  as  it  lay  on  the  trough ;  but  he  seeing  the 
other  approach  hailed  him  in  a  loud  voice,  "O  thou,  whoever 
thou  art,  rash  knight  that  comest  to  lay  hands  on  the  armor  of 
the  most  valorous  errant  that  ever  girt  on  sword,  have  a  care 
what  thou  dost ;  touch  it  not  unless  thou  wouldst  lay  down  thy 
life  as  the  })enalty  of  thy  rashness."  The  carrier  gave  no  heed 
to  these  words  (and  he  would  have  done  better  to  heed  them  if 
he  had  been  heedful  of  his  health),  but  seizing  it  by  the  strajis 
flung  the  armor  some  distance  from  him.  Seeing  this,  Don 
Quixote  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and  fixing  his  thoughts,  ap- 
parently, upon  his  lady  Dulcinea,  exclaimed,  <*  Aid  me,  lady 
mine,  in  this  the  first  encounter  that  presents  itself  to  this 
breast  which  thou  boldest  in  subjection ;  let  not  thy  favor  and 
protection  fail  me  in  this  first  jeopardy ;  and,  with  these  words 

dation  it  remains  incoherent.  Probably  what  Cervantes  meant  to  write 
and  possibly  did  write  was  — "  for  that  was  another  still  more  important 
matter,  because,"  etc. 


DON   QUIXOTE    KNIGHTED.      Vol.1.      Page  18. 


CHAPTER    Tir.  17 

and  otliers  to  the  same  purpose,  dropping  his  buckh'r  he  lifted 
his  hiuce  with  both  hands  and  with  it  smote  such  a  blow  on  the 
carrier's  head  that  he  stretched  him  on  the  ground  so  stunned 
that  had  he  followed  it  up  w  itli  a  second  there  Avould  have  been 
no  need  of  a  surgeon  to  cure  him.     This  done,  he  picked  up  his 
armor  and  returned  to  his  beat  with  the  same  serenity  as  before. 
Shortly  after  this,  another,  not  knowing  what  had  happened 
(for  the  carrier  still  lay  senseless),  came  with  the  same  object 
of  giving  water  to  his  mules,  and  was  proceeding  to  remove  the 
armor  in  order  to  clear  the  trough,  when  Don  Quixote,  without 
uttering  a  word    or  imploring   aid  from  any  one,  once    more 
dropped  his  buckler  and  once  more  lifted  his  lance,  and  with- 
out actually  breaking  the  second  carrier's  head  into  pieces,  made 
more  than  three  of  it,  for  he  laid  it  open  in  four.^     At  the  noise 
all  the  people  of  the  inn  ran  to  the  spot,  and  among  them  the 
landlord.      Seeing  this,  Don   Quixote  braced  his  buckler  on  his 
arm,  and  with  his  hand  on  his  sword  exclaimed,  "  0  Lady  of 
Beauty,  strength  and  support  of  my  faint  heart,  it  is  time  for 
thee  to  turn  the  eyes  of  thy  greatness  on  this  thy  ca]>tive  knight 
on  the  brink  of  so  mighty  an  adventure."     By  this  he  felt  him- 
self so  ins})irited  that  he  would  not  have  flinched  if  all  the  car- 
riers   in  the  world  had  assailed  him.     The  comrades  of   the 
wounded  perceiving  the  plight  they  were  in  began  from  a  dis- 
tance to  shower  stones  on  ])on  Quixote,  who  screened  himself 
as  best  he  could  with  his  buckler,  not  daring  to  quit  the  trough 
and  leave  his  armor  unprotected.     The  landlord  shouted  to  them 
to  leave  him  alone,  for  he  had  already  told  them  that  he  was 
mad,  and  as  a  madman  he  would  not  be  accountable  even  if  he 
killed  them  all.     Still  louder  shouted  Don  Quixote,  calling  them 
knaves  and  traitors,  and  the  lord  of  the  castle,  who  allowed 
knights-errant  to  be  treated  in  this  fashion,  a  villain  and  a  low- 
born knight  whom,  had  he  received  the  order  of  knighthood,  he 
would  call  to  account  for  his  treachery.     "  But  of  you,"  he  cried, 
"  base  and  vile  rabble,  I  make  no  account ;  fling,  strike,  come 
on,  do  all  ye  can  against  me,  ye  shall  see  what  the  reward  of 
your  folly  and  insolence  will  be."     This  he  uttered  with  so  much 
spirit  and  boldness  that  he  filled  his  assailants  with  a  terrible 
fear,  and  as  much  for  this  reason  as  at  the  persuasion  of  the 
landlord  they  left  off  stoning  him,  and  he  allowed  them  to  carry 
off  the  wounded,  and  with  the  same  calmness  and  composure  as 
before  resumed  the  watch  over  his  armor. 

'  Tliat  is,  inflicting  two  cuts  that  formed  a  cross. 
Vol.  I.— 2 


18  DON    QUIXOTE. 

But  these  freaks  of  his  guest  Avere  not  much  to  the  liking  of 
the  hmtUoi-d,  so  he  determined  to  cut  matters  short  and  confer 
upon  him  at  once  the  unlucky  order  of  knighthood  before  any 
further  misadventure  coukl  occur;  so,  going  up  to  him,  lie 
apologized  for  the  rudeness  which,  without  his  knowledge,  had 
been  offered  to  him  by  these  low  people,  who,  however,  had 
been  well  punished  for  their  audacity.  As  he  had  already 
told  him,  he  said,  there  was  no  chapel  in  the  castle,  nor  was  it 
needed  for  what  remained  to  be  done,  for,  as  he  understood  the 
ceremonial  of  the  order,  the  whole  point  of  being  dubbed  a 
knight  lay  in  the  accolade  and  in  the  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and 
that  could  be  administered  in  the  middle  of  a  field ;  and  that 
he  had  now  done  all  that  was  needful  as  to  watching  the  armor, 
for  all  requireinents  were  satisfied  by  a  watch  of  two  hours 
only,  while  he  had  been  more  than  four  about  it.  Don  Quixote 
believed  it  all,  and  told  him  he  stood  there  ready  to  obey  him, 
and  to  make  an  end  of  it  with  as  much  despatch  as  possible; 
for,  if  he  were  again  attacked,  and  felt  himself  to  be  a  dubbed 
knight,  he  would  not,  he  thought,  leave  a  soul  alive  in  the 
castle,  ex(tept  such  as  out  of  respect  he  might  spare  at  his 
bidding. 

Thus  warned  and  menaced,  the  castellan  forthwith  brought 
out  a  book  in  which  he  used  to  enter  the  straw  and  barley  he 
served  out  to  the  carriers,  and,  with  a  lad  carrying  a  candle- 
end,  and  the  two  damsels  already  mentioned,  he  returned  to 
where  Don  Quixote  stood,  and  bade  him  kneel  down.  Then, 
reading  from  his  account-book  as  if  he  were  repeating  some  de- 
vout prayer,  in  the  middle  of  his  delivery  he  raised  his  hand 
and  gave  him  a  sturdy  blow  on  the  neck,  and  then,  with  his 
own  sword,  a  smart  slap  on  the  shoulder,  all  the  while  mutter- 
ing between  his  teeth  as  if  he  were  saying  his  prayers.  Hav- 
ing done  this,  he  directed  one  of  the  ladies  to  gird  on  his 
sword,  which  she  did  with  great  self-possession  and  gravity, 
and  not  a  little  was  required  to  prevent  a  burst  of  laughter  at 
each  stage  of  the  ceremony ;  but  what  they  had  already  seen 
of  the  novice  knight's  prowess  kept  their  laughter  within 
bounds.  On  girding  him  with  the  sword  the  worthy  lady  said 
to  him,  "  May  God  make  your  worship  a  very  fortunate  knight, 
and  grant  you  success  in  battle."  Don  Quixote  asked  her  name 
in  order  that  he  might  from  that  time  forward  know  to  whom 
he  was  beholden  for  the  favor  he  had  received,  as  he  meant  to 
confer  upon  her  some  portion  of  the  honor  he  acquired  by  the 


CHAPTER    IV.  19 

might  of  his  arm.  She  answered  with  great  luimility  that  slie 
was  called  La  Tolosa,  and  that  she  was  a  daughter  of  a  cobbler 
of  Toledo  who  lived  in  the  stalls  of  Sanchobienaya,'  and  that 
wherever  she  might  be  she  would  serve  and  esteem  him  as  her 
lord.  Don  Quixote  said  in  reply  that  she  would  do  him  a  favor 
if  thenceforward  she  assumed  the  "  Don "  and  called  herself 
Doiia  Tolosa.  She  promised  she  would,  and  then  the  other 
buckled  on  his  spur,  and  with  her  followed  almost  the  same 
conversation  as  with  the  lady  of  the  sword.  He  asked  her 
name,  and  she  said  it  was  La  Molinera,^  and  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  respectable  miller  of  Antequera ;  and  of  her  like- 
wise Don  Quixote  requested  that  she  would  adopt  the  "  Don  " 
and  call  herself  Dona  Molinera,  making  offers  to  her  of  further 
services  and  favors. 

Having  thus,  with  hot  haste  anc^  speed,  brought  to  a  conclu- 
sion these  never-till-now-seen  ceremonies,  Don  Quixote  was  on 
thorns  until  he  saw  himself  on  horseback  sallying  forth  in 
quest  of  adventures ;  and  saddling  Rocinante  at  once  he 
mounted,  and  embracing  his  host,  as  he  returned  thanks  for 
his  kindness  in  knighting  him,  he  addressed  him  in  language 
so  extraordinary  that  it  is  impossible  to  convey  an  idea  of  it  or 
report  it.  The  landlord,  to  get  him  out  of  the  inn,  replied 
with  no  less  rhetoric  though  with  shorter  words,  and  without 
calling  upon  him  to  pay  the  reckoning,  let  him  go  with  a  God- 
speed. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OF  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  OUK  KNIGHT  WHEN  HE  LEFT 

THE  INN. 

Day  was  dawning  when  Don  Quixote  quitted  the  inn,  so 
ha])py,  so  gay,  so  exhilarated  at  finding  himself  dubbed  a 
knight,  that  his  joy  was  like  to  burst  his  horse-girths.  How- 
ever, recalling  the  advice  of  his  host  as  to  the  requisites  he 
ought  to  carry  with  him,  especially  that  referring  to  money  and 
shirts,  he  determined  to  go  home  and  provide  himself  with  all, 
and  also  with  a  squire,  for  he  reckoned  upon  securing  a  farm- 

'  An  o\A.  i^laza  in  Toledo,  so  called  probably  from  a  family  of  the  name 
of  Ben  Haya ;  or,  as  Pellicer  suggests,  from  a  corruption  of  Minaya. 


20  DON    QUIXOTE. 

laborer/  a  neighbor  of  his,  a  poor  man  with  a  family,  but  very 
well  qualified  for  the  office  of  squire  to  a  knight.  With  this 
object  he  turned  his  horse's  head  towards  his  village,  and 
Rocinante,  thus  reminded  of  his  old  quarters,  stepped  out  so 
briskly  that  he  hardly  seemed  to  tread  the  earth. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  Avhen  out  of  a  thicket  on  his  right 
there  seemed  to  come  feeble  cries  as  of  some  one  in  distress, 
and  the  instant  he  heard  them  he  exclaimed,  "  Thanks  be  to 
Heaven  for  the  favor  it  accords  me,  that  it  so  soon  offers  me  an 
opportunity  of  fulfilling  the  obligation  I  have  undertaken,  and 
gathering  the  fruit  of  my  ambition.  These  cries,  no  doubt, 
come  from  some  man  or  woman  in  want  of  help,  and  needing 
my  aid  and  protection  ; "  and  wheeling,  he  turned  Eocinante 
in  the  direction  whence  the  cries  seemed  to  proceed.  He  had 
gone  but  a  few  paues  into  ^he  wood,  when  he  saw  a  mare  tied 
to  an  oak,  and  tied  to  another,  and  stripped  from  the  waist  up- 
wards, a  youth  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age,  from  whom  the 
cries  came.  Nor  were  they  without  cause,  for  a  lusty  farmer 
was  flogging  him  with  a  belt  and  following  up  every  blow  with 
scoldings  and  commands,  repeating,  ''  Your  mouth  shut  and 
your  eyes  open  !  "  while  the  youth  made  answer,  "  I  won't  do 
it  again,  master  mine  ;  by  God's  passion  I  won't  do  it  again, 
and  I  '11  take  more  care  of  the  flock  another  time." 

Seeing  what  was  going  on,  Don  Quixote  said  in  an  angry 
voice,  "  Discourteous  knight,  it  ill  becomes  you  to  assail  one 
who  cannot  defend  himself ;  mount  your  steed  and  take  you.r 
lance  "  (for  there  was  a  lance  leaning  against  the  oak  to  which 
the  mare  was  tied),  *'  and  I  will  make  you  know  that  you  are 
behaving  as  a  coward."  The  farmer,  seeing  before  him  this 
figure  in  full  armor  brandishing  a  lance  over  his  head,  gave 
himself  up  for  dead,  and  made  answer  meekly,  ''  Sir  Knight, 
this  youth  that  I  am  chastising  is  my  servant,  employed  by  me 
to  watch  a  flock  of  sheep  that  I  have  hard  by,  and  he  is  so  care- 
less that  I  lose  one  every  day,  and  when  I  punish  him  for  his 
carelessness  and  knavery  he  says  I  do  it  out  of  niggardliness, 
to  escape  paying  him  the  wages  I  owe  him,  and  before  God,  and 
on  my  soul,  he  lies." 

''  Lies  before  me,  base  clown  ! "  said  Don  Quixote.     "  By 

'  Labrador^  the  word  used  here  to  describe  the  status  of  Sancho,  means, 
generally,  a  tiller  of  tlie  soil,  and  includes  farmers  employing  laborers, 
like  Juan  Haldudo  the  Rich,  who  is  so  described  lower  down,  as  well  as  those 
who  tilled  their  land  themselves  or  worked  for  others.  Sancho  was  one  of 
the  latter  class,  as  appears  from  a  remark  of  his  own  in  the  Second  Part. 


CHAPTER    IV.  21 

the  sun  that  shines  on  ns  I  have  a  mind  to  run  yon  tlirongh 
with  this  lance.  Pay  him  at  once  without  another  word ;  if 
not,  by  tlie  God  that  rules  us  I  Avill  make  an  end  of  you,  and 
annihilate  you  on  the  spot ;  release  him  instantly." 

The  farmer  hung  his  head,  and  without  a  Avord  untied  his 
servant,  of  whom  Don  Quixote  asked  how.  mucli  his  master 
owed  him. 

He  replied,  nine  months  at  seven  reals  a  month.  Don 
Quixote  added  it  up,  found  that  it  came  to  sixty -three  reals, 
and  told  the  farmer  to  pay  it  down  imjuediately,  if  he  did  not 
want  to  die  for  it. 

The  trendiling  clown  replied  that  as  he  lived  and  by  the 
oath  he  had  sworn  (though  he  had  not  sworn  any)  it  was  not 
so  much  ;  for  there  were  to  be  taken  into  account  and  deducted 
three  pairs  of  shoes  he  had  given  him,  and  a  real  for  two 
blood-lettings  Avhen  he  was  sick. 

"  All  that  is  very  well,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  ''  luit  let  the 
shoes  and  the  blood-lettings  stand  as  a  set-off  against  the 
blows  you  have  given  him  without  any  cause  ;  for  if  he  spoiled 
the  leather  of  the  shoes  you  })aid  for,  you  have  damaged  that 
of  his  body,  and  if  the  barber  took  blood  from  him  when  he 
was  sick,  you  have  drawn  it  when  he  was  sound  ;  so  on  that 
score  he  owes  you  nothing." 

"  The  difficulty  is.  Sir  Knight,^  that  I  have  no  money  here ;  let 
Andres  come  home  with  me,  and  I  will  pay  him  all,  real  by  real." 

"  I  go  with  him  !  "  said  the  youth.  "  Nay,  God  forbid  !  no, 
senor,  not  for  the  woidd ;  for  once  alone  with  me,  he  would 
flay  me  like  a  Saint  P>artholomew." 

"  He  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  I 
have  only  to  command,  and  he  will  obey  me ;  and  as  he  has 
sworn  to  me  by  the  order  of  knighthood  which  he  has  received, 
I  leave  him  free,  and  I  guarantee  the  payment.'" 

"  Consider  what  you  are  saying,  seiior,"  said  the  youth  ; 
"  this  master  of  mine  is  not  a  knight,  nor  has  he  received  any 
order  of  knighthood  ;  for  he  is  Juan  Haldudo  the  Eich,  of 
Quintanar." 

"  That  matters  little,"  replied  Don  Quixote  ;  "  there  may  be 
Haldudos  knights ;  '^  moreover,  every  one  is  the  son  of  his 
works."  ^ 

'  Cervantes  now  and  then  in  dialogue  does  not  specify  the  speaker,  hut 
the  omissions  are  so  rare  tliat  they  are  probably  oversights,  and  I  liavi' 
genornlly  sni^plied  them. 

*  J/aldudos  — wearers  of  long  skirts.  ^  Prov.  112. 


22  DON    QUIXOTE. 

''  That  is  true,"  said  Andres  ;  "  but  this  master  of  mine  — 
of  what  Avorks  is  he  the  son,  Avhen  he  refuses  me  the  wages  of 
my  sweat  and  labor  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  refuse,  brother  Andres,"  said  the  farmer ;  "  be 
good  enough  to  come  along  with  me,  and  I  swear  by  all  the 
orders  of  knighthood  there  are  m  the  world  to  pay  you  as  I 
have  agreed,  real  by  real,  and  perfiimed."  ^ 

"  For  the  perfumery  I  excuse  you,"  said  Don  Quixote ; 
"  give  it  to  him  in  reals,  and  I  shall  be  satisfied ;  and  see  that 
you  do  as  you  have  sworn ;  if  not,  by  the  same  oath  I  swear 
to  come  back  and  hunt  you  out  and  punish  you ;  and  I  shall 
find  you  though  you  should  lie  closer  than  a  lizard.  And  if 
you  desire  to  know  who  it  is  lays  this  command  upon  you, 
that  you  may  be  more  firndy  boiind  to  obey  it,  knoAv  that  I 
am  the  valorous  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  the  undoer  of 
wrongs  and  injustices ;  and  so,  God  be  with  you,  and  keep  in 
mind  what  you  have  promised  and  sworn  under  those  penal- 
ties that  have  been  already  declared  to  you." 

So  saying,  he  gave  Rocinante  the  spur  and  was  soon  out  of 
reach.  The  farmer  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and  when  he 
saw  that  he  had  cleared  the  wood  and  was  no  longer  in  sight, 
he  turned  to  his  boy  Andres,  and  said,  "  Come  here,  my  son, 
I  want  to  pay  you  what  I  owe  you,  as  that  imdoer  of  Avrongs 
has  commanded  me." 

"  My  oath  on  it,"  said  Andres,  "  your  worship  will  be  well 
advised  to  obey  the  command  of  that  good  knight  —  may  he 
live  a  thousand  years  —  for,  as  he  is  a  valiant  and  just  judge^ 
by  Roque,"^  if  you  do  not  pay  me,  he  will  come  back  and  do 
as  he  said." 

"  My  oath  on  it,  too,"  said  the  farmer ;  "  but  as  I  have  a 
strong  affection  for  you,  I  want  to  add  to  the  debt  in  order  to 
add  to  the  payment ;  "  and  seizing  him  by  the  arm,  he  tied 
him  up  to  the  oak  again,  where  he  gave  him  such  a  flogging 
that  he  left  him  for  dead. 

"  iSTow,  Master  Andres,"  said  the  farmer,  "  call  on  the  un- 
doer of  wrongs ;  you  will  find  he  Avon't  undo  that,  though  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  have  (piite  done  with  you,  for  I  liave  a 
good  mind  to  flay  you  alive  as  you  feared."     But  at  last  he 

'"  Perfumed '"  —  a  yny  of  expresshig  completeness  or  perfection  of 
condition. 

'^An  obscure  outli,  of  whicli  there  is  no  satisfactory  explanation  as  to 
Avho  or  what  Hoquo  was,  whetlier  the  San  Roque  who  gave  the  name  to 
the  town  near  Gibraltar,  or  some  Manchegan  celeljrity. 


CHAPTER    TV.  23 

untied  liini,  and  gave  him  leave  to  go  look  for  liis  judge  in 
order  to  })ut  the  sentence  pronoiuiced  into  execution. 

Andres  went  oft'  rather  down  in  the  mouth,  swearing  he 
would  go  to  look  for  the  valiant  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha 
and  tell  him  exactly  Avhat  had  happened,  and  that  all  would 
have  to  be  repaid  him  sevenfold ;  but  for  all  that,  he  went  off 
weeping,  while  his  master  stood  laughing. 

Thus  did  the  valiant  Don  Quixote  right  that  wrong,  and, 
thoroughly  satisiied  with  what  had  taken  place,  as  he  consid- 
ered he  had  made  a  very  happy  and  noble  beginning  with  his 
knighthood,  he  took  the  road  towards  his  village  in  perfect 
self-content,  saying  in  a  low  voice,  "  AVell  mayest  thou  this 
day  call  thyself  fortunate  above  all  on  earth,  0  Dulcinea  del 
Toboso,  fairest  of  the  fair !  since  it  has  fallen  to  thy  lot  to 
hold  subject  and  submissive  to  thy  full  will  and  pleasure  a 
knight  so  renowned  as  is  and  will  be  Don  Quixote  of  La  Man- 
clia,  who,  as  all  the  world  knows,  yesterday  received  the  order 
of  knighthood,  and  hath  to-day  righted  the  greatest  wrong 
and  grievance  that  ever  injustice  conceived  and  cruelty  perpe- 
trated :  who  hath  to-day  plucked  the  rod  from  the  hand  of 
yonder  ruthless  oppressor  so  wantonly  lashing  that  tender 
child." 

He  now  came  to  a  road  branching  in  four  directions,  and 
immediately  he  was  reminded  of  those  cross-roads  where 
knights-errant  used  to  stop  to  consider  which  road  they 
should  take.  In  imitation  of  them  he  halted  for  a  while, 
and  after  having  deeply  considered  it,  he  gave  Eocinante  his 
head,  submitting  his  own  will  to  that  of  his  hack,  who  fol- 
lowed out  his  first  intention,  which  was  to  make  straight  for 
his  own  stable.  After  he  had  gone  about  two  miles  Don 
Quixote  perceived  a  large  party  of  people,  Avho,  as  afterwards 
appeared,  were  some  Toledo  traders,  on  their  way  to  buy  silk 
at  Murcia.  There  were  six  of  them  coming  along  under  their 
sunshades,  with  four  servants  mounted,  and  three  muleteers 
on  foot.  Scarcely  had  Don  Quixote  descried  them  when  the 
fancy  possessed  him  that  this  must  be  some  new  adventure ; 
and  to  help  him  to  imitate  as  far  as  he  could  those  passages  ^ 
he  had  read  of  in  his  books,  here  seemed  to  come  one  made  on 
purpose,  which  he  resolved  to  attempt.  So  with  a  lofty  bear- 
ing and  determination  he  fixed  hini.^elf  finnly  in  his  stirrups, 

'  Not  passages  of  the  book,  but  passages  of  arms  like  tliat  of  Suero 
de  Quinones  on  the  bridge  of  ()rl)ig()  in  tlie  reign  of  John  II. 


24  DON    QUIXOTE. 

got  his  lance  ready,  brouglit  his  buckler  before  his  breast,  and 
planting  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  stood  waiting  the 
approach  of  these  knights-errant,  for  siich  he  now  considered 
and  held  them  to  be  ;  and  when  they  had  come  near  enough  to 
see  and  hear,  he  exclaimed  with  a  haughty  gesture,  "  All  the 
world  stand,  unless  all  the  world  confess  that  in  all  the  world 
there  is  no  maiden  fairer  than  the  Empress  of  La  Mancha,  the 
peerless  Dulcinea  del   Toboso." 

The  traders  halted  at  the  sound  of  this  language  and  the 
sight  of  the  strange  figure  that  uttered  it,  and  from  ])oth  figure 
and  language  at  once  guessed  the  craze  of  their  owner ;  they 
wished,  however,  to  learn  quietly  what  was  the  object  of  this 
confession  that  was  demanded  of  them,  and  one  of  them,  who 
was  rather  fond  of  a  joke  and  was  very  sharp-witted,  said  to 
him,  "  Sir  Knight,  we  do  not  know  who  this  good  lady  is  that 
you  speak  of ;  show  her  to  us,  for,  if  she  be  of  such  beauty  as 
you  suggest,  with  all  our  hearts  and  without  any  pressure  we 
will  confess  the  truth  that  is  on  your  part  required  of  us." 

"  If  I  were  to  show  her  to  you,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  what 
merit  would  you  have  in  confessing  a  truth  so  manifest  ?  The 
essential  point  is  that  without  seeing  her  you  must  believe, 
confess,  affirm,  swear,  and  defend  it ;  ^  else  ye  have  to  do  with 
me  in  battle,  ill-conditioned,  ai'rogant  rabble  that  ye  are ;  and 
come  ye  on,  one  by  one  as  the  order  of  knighthood  requires, 
or  all  together  as  is  the  custom  and  vile  usage  of  your  breed, 
here  do  I  bide  and  await  you,  relying  on  the  justice  of  the 
cause  I  maintain." 

"  Sir  Knight,"  replied  the  trader,  "  I  entreat  your  worship 
in  the  name  of  this  present  company  of  princes,  that,  to  save 
us  from  charging  our  consciences  with  the  confession  of  a  thing 
we  have  never  seen  or  heard  of,  and  one  moreover  so  much  to 
the  prejudice  of  the  Empresses  and  Queens  of  the  Alcarria  and 
Estremadura,^  your  worship  will  be  pleased  to  show  us  some 
portrait  of  this  lady,  though  it  be  no  bigger  than  a  grain  of 

'  It  is  strange  that  this  passage  shoiihl  have  escaped  the  notice  of  those 
ingenious  critics  wliose  mania  it  is  to  Imnt  for  hidden  meanings  in  Don 
Quixote.  Witli  a  moderate  amount  of  acumen  it  ought  to  be  easy  to  ex- 
tract from  these  words  a  manifest  "  covert  attack  "  on  Church,  Faith,  and 
Dogma. 

-The  Ah'arria  is  a  hare,  thinly  popuhited 'district,  in  the  upper  valley 
of  the  Tagus,  stretching  from  Guadalajara  to  the  confines  of  Aragon. 
Estremadura  is  tlie  most  backward  of  all  the  provinces  of  Spain.  In 
elevating  these  two  regions  into  the  rank  of  empires,  the  waggish  trader 
falls  in  with  the  craze  of  Don  Quixote. 


CHAPTER    IV.  25 

wheat ;  for  by  the  thread  one  gets  at  the  ball,^  and  in  this  way 
we  shall  be  satisfied  and  easy,  and  you  will  be  content  and 
pleased ;  nay,  I  believe  we  are  already  so  far  agreed  with  you 
that  even  though  her  portrait  should  show  her  blind  of  one  eye, 
and  distilling  vermilion  and  sulphur  from  the  other,  we  would 
nevertheless,  to  gratify  your  worship,  say  all  in  her  favor  that 
you  desire." 

"  She  distils  nothing  of  the  kind,  vile  rabble,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  burning  with  rage,  "  nothing  of  the  kind,  I  say,  only 
ambergris  and  civet  in  cotton ;  '^  nor  is  she  one-eyed  or  hump 
backed,  but  straighter  than  a  Guadarrama  spindle  :  ^  but  ye 
must  pay  for  the  blasphemy  ye  have  uttered  against  beauty 
like  that  of  my  lady." 

And  so  saying,  he  charged  with  levelled  lance  against  the 
one  who  had  spoken,  with  such  fury  and  fierceness  that,  if  luck 
had  not  contrived  that  Rocinante  should  stumble  midway  and 
come  down,  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  the  rash  trader. 
Down  went  Rocinante,  and  over  went  his  master,  rolling  along 
the  ground  for  some  distance ;  and  when  he  tried  to  rise  he 
was  unable,  so  encuml)ered  was  he  with  lance,  buckler,  spurs, 
helmet,  and  the  weight  of  his  old  armor ;  and  all  the  while  he 
was  struggling  to  get  up,  he  kept  saying,  ''  Fly  not,  cowards 
and  caitiffs  !  stay,  for  not  by  my  fault,  but  my  horse's,  am  I 
stretched  here." 

One  of  the  muleteers  in  attendance,  who  could  not  have 
had  much  good  nature  in  him,  hearing  the  poor  prostrate  man 
blustering  in  this  style,  was  unable  to  refrain  from  giving  him 
an  answer  on  his  ribs  ;  and  coming  up  to  him  he  seized  his 
lance,  and  having  broken  it  in  pieces,  with  one  of  them  he  be- 
gan so  to  belabor  our  Don  Quixote  that,  notwithstanding  and 
in  spite  of  his  armor,  he  milled  him  like  a  measure  of  wheat. 
His  masters  called  out  not  to  lay  on  so  hard  and  to  leave  him 
alone,  but  the  muleteer's  blood  was  up,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
drop  the  game  until  he  had  vented  the  rest  of  his  wrath,  and, 

'  Prov.  114.     The  ball,  i.e.,  that  on  which  it  is  wovmd. 

^  Civet  was  the  perfume  most  in  request  at  the  time,  and  was  imported 
packed  in  cotton. 

3  Mas  derecho  que  vn  huso  — "  straighter  than  a  spindle  "  — is  a  popuhir 
phrase  in  use  to  this  day.  The  addition  of  "Guadarrama"  Clemencin 
explains  by  saying  that  spindles  were  made  in  great  quantities  of  the 
beech  wood  that  grew  on  the  Guadarrama  Sierra.  Fermin  Caballero 
(Pericia  Geografica  de  Cervantes)  holds  that  the  reference  is  to  the  pine 
trees  on  the  Guadarrama  Pass. 


26  DON    QUIXOTE. 

gathering  up  the  re^naining  fragments  of  the  lance,  he  finished 
witli  a  discharge  upon  tlie  unhappy  victim,  who  all  through  the 
storm  of  sticks  that  rained  on  him  never  ceased  threatening 
heaven,  and  earth,  and  the  brigands,  for  such  they  seemed  to 
him.  At  last  the  muleteer  was  tired,  and  the  traders  continued 
their  journey,  taking  with  them  matter  for  talk  about  the  poor 
fellow  who  had  been  cudgelled.  He  when  he  found  himself 
alone  made  another  effort  to  rise ;  but  if  he  was  unable  when 
whole  and  sound,  how  was  he  to  rise  after  having  been  thrashed 
and  well-nigh  knocked  to  pieces  ?  And  yet  he  esteemed  him- 
self fortunate,  as  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  was  a  regular 
knight-errant's  mishap,  and  entirely,  he  considered,  the  fault 
of  his  horse.  However,  battered  in  body  as  he  was,  to  rise 
was  beyond  his  power. 


CHAPTER   V. 

IlSr    WHICH    THE    NARRATIVE    OF    OUR    KNIGHT's    MISHAP    IS 

CONTINUED. 

Finding,  then,  that  in  fact  he  could  not  move,  he  bethought 
himself  of  having  recourse  to  his  usual  remedy,  which  was  to 
think  of  some  passage  in  his  books,  and  his  craze  brought  to 
his  mind  that  about  Baldwin  and  the  Marquis  of  Mantua,  when 
( 'arloto  left  hiiu  wounded  on  the  mountain  side,^  a  story  known 
by  heart  by  the  children,  not  forgotten  by  the  yoruig  men,  and 
lauded  and  even  believed  by  the  old  folk ;  and  for  all  that  not 
a  whit  truer  than  the  miracles  of  Mahomet.  This  seemed  to  him 
to  fit  exactly  the  case  in  which  he  foiind  himself,  so,  making 
a  show  of  severe  suffering,  he  began  to  roll  on  the  ground  and 
with  feeble  breath  repeat  the  very  Avords  which  the  wounded 
knight  of  the  wood  is  said  to  have  uttered : 


^&^ 


"  Where  art  thou,  hidy  mine  ;   that  thou 
My  sorrow  dost  not  rue  ? 
Thou  canst  not  know  it,  lady  mine, 
Or  else  thou  art  untrue." 

'The  subject  of  the  old  hallad —  De  Mantua  salid  el  3Iarques  (Buran's 
Romancero  General,  No.  355)  ;  a  chanson  de  geste,  indeed,  rather  than  a 
1)allad,  as  it  runs  to  sometliing  over  800  lines.  Pellicer  wrongly  assigns 
it  to  Geroninu)  Trevifio,  a  sixteenth  century  author.  It  is  in  the  Antwerp 
Cancionero  of  1550  and  the  Saragossa  Silva  of  the  same  date. 


CHAPTER    V.  27 

And  so  he  went  on  with  the  ballad  as  far  as  the  lines : 

"  O  noble  Marquis  of  Mantua, 
My  Unck'  and  liegf  lord!  " 

As  chance  would  have  it,  when  he  had  got  to  this  line  there 
happened  to  come  by  a  peasant  from  his  own  village,  a  neigh- 
bor of  his,  who  had  been  with  a  load  of  wheat  to  the  mill,  and 
he,  seeing  the  man  stretched  there,  came  up  to  him  and  asked 
him  who  he  was  and  what  was  the  matter  with  him  that  he 
complained  so  dolefully. 

Don  Quixote  was  firmly  persuaded  that  this  was  the  Marquis 
of  Mautiia,  his  uncle,  so  the  only  answer  he  made  was  to  go 
on  with  his  ballad,  in  which  he  told  the  tale  of  his  misfortune, 
and  of  the  loves  of  the  Emperor's  son  and  his  wife,  all  exactly 
as  the  ballad  sings  it. 

The  peasant  stood  amazed  at  hearing  such  nonsense,  and 
relieving  him  of  the  visor,  already  battered  to  pieces  by  blows, 
he  wiped  his  face,  which  was  covered  with  dust,  and  as  soon 
as  he  had  done  so  he  recognized  him  and  said,  "  Seiior  Don 
Quixada  "  (for  so  he  appears  to  have  been  called  when  he  was 
in  his  senses  and  had  not  yet  changed  from  a  quiet  country 
gentleman  into  a  knight-errant),  "  who  has  brought  yoiir  wor- 
ship to  this  pass  ?  "  But  to  all  questions  the  other  only  went 
on  with  his  ballad. 

Seeing  this,  the  good  man  removed  as  well  as  he  could  his 
breastplate  and  backpiece  to  see  if  he  had  any  wound,  but  he 
could  perceive  no  blood  nor  any  mark  whatever.  He  then 
contrived  to  raise  him  from  the  ground,  and  with  no  little 
difficulty  hoisted  him  upon  his  ass,  which  seemed  to  him  to 
be  the  easiest  mount  for  him ;  and  collecting  the  arms,  even 
to  the  splinters  of  the  lance,  he  tied  them  on  Rocinante,  and 
leading  him  by  the  bridle  and  the  ass  by  the  halter  he  took  the 
road  for  the  village,  very  sad  to  hear  what  absurd  stuff  Don 
Quixote  was  talking.  Nor  was  Don  Quixote  less  so,  for  what 
with  blows  and  bruises  he  could  not  sit  upright  on  the  ass,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  sent  up  sighs  to  heaven,  so  that  once  more 
he  drove  the  peasant  to  ask  what  ailed  him.  And  it  could  have 
been  only  the  devil  himself  that  put  into  his  head  tales  to  match 
his  own  adventures,  for  now,  forgetting  Baldwin,  he  bethought 
himself  of  the  Moor  Abindarraez,  when  the  Alcaide  of  Ante- 
quera,  Eodrigo  de  Narvaez,  took  him  prisoner  and  carried  him 
away  to  his  castle ;  so  that  when  the  peasant  again  asked  him 


28  DON    QUIXOTE. 

how  he  was  and  what  ailed  him,  he  gave  him  for  reply  the  same 
words  and  phrases  that  the  captive  Abencerrage  gave  to  Eodrigo 
de  Narvaez,  just  as  he  had  read  the  story  in  the  "Diana"  of 
Jorge  de  Montemayor  ^  where  it  is  written,  applying  it  to  his  own 
case  so  aptly  that  the  jaeasant  went  along  cursing  his  fate  that 
he  had  to  listen  to  such  a  lot  of  nonsense ;  from  which,  how- 
ever, he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  his  neighbor  was  mad, 
and  so  made  all  haste  to  reach  the  village  to  escape  the  weari- 
someness  of  this  harangue  of  Don  Quixote's ;  who,  at  the  end 
of  it,  said,  "  Senor  Don  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez,  your  worship 
must  know  that  this  fair  Xarifa  I  have  mentioned  is  now  the 
lovely  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  for  whom  I  have  done,  am  doing, 
and  will  do  the  most  famous  deeds  of  chivalry  that  in  this 
world  have  been  seen,  are  to  be  seen,  or  ever  shall  be  seen." 

To  this  the  peasant  answered,  "  Senor  —  sinner  that  I 
am  !  —  can  not  your  worship  see  that  I  am  not  Don  Eodrigo 
de  Narvaez  nor  the  Marquis  of  Mantua,  but  Pedro  Alonso 
your  neighbor,  and  that  your  worship  is  neither  Baldwin  nor 
Abindarraez,  but  the  worthy  gentleman  Senor  Quixada  ?  " 

"  I  know  who  I  am,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  and  I  know 
that  I  may  be  not  only  those  I  have  named,  but  all  the  Twelve 
Peers  of  France  and  even  all  the  Nine  Worthies,  since  my 
achievements  surpass  all  that  they  have  done  all  together  and 
each  of  them  on  his  own  account." 

With  this  talk  and  more  of  the  same  kind  they  reached  the 
village  just  as  night  was  beginning  to  fall,  but  the  peasant 
waited  until  it  was  a  little  later  that  the  belabored  gentleman 
might  not  be  seen  riding  in  such  a  miserable  trim.  When  it 
was  what  seemed  to  him  the  proper  time  he  entered  the  village 
and  went  to  Don  Quixote's  house,  which  he  found  all  in  con- 
fusion, and  there  were  the  curate  and  the  village  barber,  who 
were  great  friends  of  Don  Quixote,  and  his  housekeeper  was 
saying  to  them  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Seiior  licentiate  Pero  Perez," 
for  so  the  curate  was  called,  "  what  does  your  worship 
think  can  have  befallen  my  master  ?  it  is  six  days  now 
since  anything  has  been  seen  of  him,  or  the  hack,  or  the 
buckler,  lance,  or  armor.  Miserable  me  !  I  am  certain  of  it, 
and  it  is  as  true  as  that  I  was  born  to  die,  that  these  accursed 

'From  the  words  used  by  Cervantes  he  seems  to  have  known  or  sus- 
pected that  Montemayor  was  not  the  author  of  the  romantic  story  of 
Abindarraez  and  Xarifa.  It  was  inserted  in  the  second  edition  of  the 
Diana.,  the  year  of  the  aiitlior's  death,  and  it  had  previously  appeared  as 
a,  separate  novel  at  Toledo. 


CHAPTER     V.  ^9 

books  of  oliivahy  he  has,  and  has  got  into  the  way  of  reading- 
so  constantly,  have  npset  his  reason  ;  for  now  I  remember 
having  often  heard  him  saying  to  himself  that  he  Avould  tnru 
knight-errant  and  go  all  over  the  world  in  quest  of  adventures. 
To  the  devil  and  Barabbas  with  such  books,  that  have  broiight 
to  ruin  in  this  way  the  finest  understanding  there  was  in  all 
La  Mancha !  " 

The  niece  said  the  same,  and,  indeed,  more :  "  You  must 
know.  Master  Nicholas  "  —  for  that  was  the  name  of  the 
barber  —  "  it  was  often  my  uncle's  way  to  stay  tAvo  days  and 
nights  together  poring  over  these  unholy  books  of  misventures, 
after  which  he  would  fling  the  V>(>ok  away  and  snatch  u})  his 
sword  and  fall  to  slashing  the  walls ;  and  when  he  was  tired 
out  he  would  say  he  had  killed  four  giants  like  four  towers  ; 
and  the  sweat  that  flowed  from  him  when  he  was  weary  he 
said  was  the  blood  of  the  wounds  he  had  received  in  battle  ; 
and  then  he  would  drink  a  great  jug  of  cold  water  and  become 
calm  and  quiet,  saying  that  this  water  was  a  most  precious 
potion  which  the  sage  Esquife,  a  great  magician  and  friend  of 
his,  had  brought  him.  But  I  take  all  the  blame  upon  myself 
for  never  having  told  your  worships  of  my  uncle's  vagaries,  that 
you  might  put  a  stop  to  them  before  things  had  come  to  this 
pass,  and  burn  all  these  accursed  books  —  for  he  has  a  great 
number  —  that  richly  deserve  to  be  burned  like  heretics." 

"  So  say  I  too,"  said  the  curate,  "  and  l)y  my  faith  to-mor- 
row shall  not  pass  without  public  judgment  u})()n  them,  and 
may  they  be  condemned  to  the  flames  lest  they  lead  those 
that  read  them  to  behave  as  my  good  friend  seems  to  have 
behaved." 

All  this  the  peasant  heard,  and  from  it  he  understood  at 
last  what  was  the  matter  with  his  neighbor,  so  he  began 
calling  aloud,  "  Open,  your  worships,  to  Sefior  Baldwin  and 
to  Sefior  the  Marquis  of  Mantua,  who  comes  badly  wounded,' 
and  to  Sefior  Abindarraez,  the  Moor,  whom  the  valiant  Kod- 
rigo  de  ISTarvaez,  the  Alcaide  of  Antequera,  brings  captive." 

At  these  words  they  all  hurried  out,  and  when  they  recog- 
nized their  friend,  master,  and  uncle,  who  had  not  yet  dis- 
mounted from  the  ass  because  he  could  not,  they  ran  to 
embrace  him. 

"  Hold  ! "  said  he,  "  for  I  am  badly  wounded  through  my 
horse's  fault ;  carry  me  to  bed,  and  if  possible  send  for  the 
wise  Urganda  to  cure  and  see  to  my  wounds." 


30  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  See  there  !  plague  on  it !  "  cried  the  housekeeper  at  this  : 
"  did  not  my  heart  tell  the  truth  as  to  which  foot  my  master 
went  lame  of?  To  bed  with  your  worship  at  once,  and  we 
will  contrive  to  cure  you  here  without  fetching  that  Hurgada. 
A  curse  I  say  once  more,  and  a  hundred  times  more,  on  those 
books  of  chivalry  that  have  brought  your  worship  to  such  a 
pass." 

They  carried  him  to  bed  at  once,  and  after  searching  for 
his  wounds  could  find  none,  but  he  said  they  were  all  bruises 
from  having  had  a  severe  fall  with  his  horse  Eocinante  when 
in  combat  with  ten  giants,  the  biggest  and  the  boldest  to  be 
found  on  earth. 

"  So,  so  !  "  said  the  curate,  "  are  there  giants  in  the  dance  ? 
By  the  sign  of  the  Cross  I  will  bvirn  them  to-morrow  before 
the  day  is  over." 

They  put  a  host  of  questions  to  Don  Quixote,  but  his  only 
answer  to  all  was  —  give  him  something  to  eat,  and  leave 
him  to  sleep,  for  that  was  what  he  needed  most.  They  did 
so,  and  the  curate  questioned  the  peasant  at  great  length 
'as  to  how  he  had  found  Don  Quixote.  He  told  him  all, 
and  the  nonsense  he  had  talked  when  found  and  on  the 
way  home,  all  which  made  the  licentiate  the  more  eager  to 
do  what  he  did  the  next  day,  which  was  to  summon  his 
friend  the  barber,  Master  Nicholas,  and  go  with  him  to  Don 
Quixote's  house. 


CHAPTER   YI. 

OF  THE  DIVERTING  AND  IMPORTANT  SCRUTINY  WHICH  THE 
CURATE  AND  THE  BARBER  MADE  IN  THE  LIBRARY  OF  OUR 
INGENIOUS    GENTLEMAN. 

He  was  still  sleeping ;  so  the  curate  asked  ^  the  niece  for  the 
keys  of  the  room  where  the  books,  the  authors  of  all  the  mis- 
chief, were,  and  right  willingly  she  gave  them.  They  all  went 
in,  the  housekeeper  with  them,  and  found  more  than  a  hundred 
volumes  of  big  books  very  well  bound,  and  some  other  small 

'  In  the  original  the  passage  runs  :  "  Who  was  even  still  sleeping.  He 
asked  the  niece  for  the  keys,"  etc.  It  is  a  minor  instance  of  Cervantes' 
disregard  of  the  ordinary  laws  of  comi)()sition,  and  also  a  proof  that  at 
this  stage  of  the  work  he  had  not  originally  contemplated  a  division  into 
chapters. 


CHAPTER    YT.  81 

ones.^  The  iiiomeut  the  housekeeper  saw  them  she  turned 
about  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  eame  back  immediately 
with  a  saucer  of  holy  water  and  a  sprinkler,  saying,  "Here, 
your  Avorship,  senor  licentiate,  sprinkle  this  room ;  don't  leave 
any  magician  of  the  nuuiy  there  are  in  these  books  to  bewit(di 
us  in  revenge  for  our  design  of  banishing  them  from  the 
world." 

The  simplicity  of  the  housekeeper  made  the  licentiate  laugh, 
and  he  directed  the  barber  to  give  him  the  books  one  by  one 
to  see  what  they  were  about,  as  there  might  be  some  to  be 
found  among  them  that  did  not  deserve  the  penalty  of  fire. 

"  No,"  said  the  niece,  "  there  is  no  reason  for  showing  mercy 
to  any  of  them ;  they  have  every  one  of  them  done  mischief ; 
better  fling  them  out  of  the  window  into  the  court  and  make  a 
})ile  of  them  and  set  fire  to  them  ;  or  else  carry  them  into  the 
yard,  and  there  a  bonfire  can  be  made  without  the  smoke  giv- 
ing any  annoyance."  '^  The  housekeeper  said  the  same,  so 
eager  were  they  for  the  slaughter  of  those  innocents,  but  the 
curate  would  not  agree  to  it  without  first  reading  at  any  rate 
the  titles. 

The  first  that  Master  Nicholas  put  into  his  hand  was  the 
four  books  of  "  Amadis  of  Gaul."  "This  seems  a  mysterious 
thing,"  said  the  curate,  "for,  as  I  have  heard  said,  this  was 
the  first  book  of  chivalry  printed  in  Spain,  and  fronr  this  all 
the  others  derive  their  birth  and  origin ;  '^  so  it  seems  to  me 
that  we  ought  inexorably  to  condemn  it  to  the  flames  as  the 
founder  of  so  vile  a  sect." 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  the  barber,  "  I,  too,  have  heard  say  that 
this  is  the  best  of  all  the  books  of  this  kind  that  have  been 
written,  and  so,  as  something  singular  in  its  line,  it  ought  to 
be  pardoned." 

'  The  romances  of  chivalry  were,  with  not  more  than  two  or  three  ex- 
ceptions, produced  in  the  folio  form,  while  the  hooks  of  poetry,  the  pas- 
torals, the  caiicioneros,  and  romanceros^  were  either  in  small  quarto  or 
much  more  commonly  in  small  octavo  corresponding  in  size  with  our 
duodecimo. 

^  The  court  the  niece  speaks  of,  was  the  patio  or  open  space  in  the  mid- 
dle ot  the  house ;  the  corral  or  yard  was  on  the  outside. 

'The  curate  was  quite  correct  in  his  idea  that  Ainadis  of  Gaul  was  the 
parent  of  the  chivalry  literature,  but  not  in  his  statement  that  it  was  the 
first  book  of  the  kind  printed  in  Spain,  for  it  is  not  likely  it  was  printed 
before  Tirant  lo  Blanch,  Olireros  de  Castilla,  or  the  Carcel  cle  Amor. 
The  earliest  known  edition  was  printed  in  Rome  in  1519,  but  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  this  is  a  reprint  of  a  Spanish  edition,  of  perhaps  even  an 
earlier  date  than  1510,  which  has  been  given  as  that  of  the  first  edition. 


32  DON    QUIXOTE. 

''  True,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  and  for  that  reason  let  its  life 
be  spared  for  the  present.  Let  us  see  that  other  which  is  next 
to  it." 

"  It  is,"  said  the  barber,  ''  the  '  Sergas  de  Esplandian,  the 
lawful  son  of  Amadis  of  Gaul.' "  ^ 

'<  Then  verily,"  said  the  curate,  "  the  merit  of  the  father 
must  not  be  put  down  to  the  account  of  the  son.  Take  it, 
mistress  housekeeper  ;  open  the  window  and  fling  it  into  the 
yard  and  lay  the  foundation  of  the  pile  for  the  bonfire  we  are 
to  make." 

The  housekeeper  obeyed  with  great  satisfaction,  and  the 
worthy  "  Esplandian  "  Avent  flying  into  the  yard  to  await  with 
all  patience  the  fire  that  was  in  store  for  him. 

"  Proceed,"  said  the  curate. 

"  This  that  comes  next,"  said  the  barber,  "  is  '  Amadis  of 
Greece,'  '^  and,  indeed,  I  believe  all  those  on  this  side  are  of  the 
same  Amadis  lineage." 

"  Then  to  the  yard  with  the  whole  of  them,"  said  the  curate  ; 
''  for  to  have  the  burning  of  Queen  Pintiquiniestra,  and  the 
shepherd  Darinel  and  his  eclogues,  and  the  bedevilled  and  in- 
volved discoiirses  of  his  author,  I  would  burn  with  them  the 
father  who  begot  me  if  he  were  going  about  in  the  guise  of  a 
knight-errant." 

"  I  am  of  the  same  mind,"  said  the  barber. 

"  And  so  am  I,"  added  the  niece. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  housekeeper,  '<  here,  into  the  yard 
with  them ! " 

They  were  handed  to  her,  and  as  there  were  many  of  them, 
she  spared  herself  the  staircase,  and  flung  them  down  out  of 
the  window. 

"  Who  is  that  tuli  there  ?  "  said  the  curate. 

"  This,"  said  the  barber,  "  is  '  Don  Olivante  de  Laura.'  "  ^ 

'  Las  Sergas  (i.e.  las  Ipya — the  achievements)  de  Esplandian  (1521) 
forms  the  fifth  hook  of  the  Amadis  Series,  and  is  the  composition  of  Mon- 
talvo  himself,  as  is  also,  apparently,  the  fourth  book  of  Amadis  of  Gaul. 
He  only  claims  to  have  edited  the  first  three. 

'^Amadis  of  Greece^  by  Feliciano  de  Silva  (1535),  forms  the  ninth  book 
of  the  Amadis  Series.  Pintiquiniestra  was  Queen  of  Sobradisa,  and  Dari- 
nel was  a  shepherd  and  wrestler  of  Alexandria.  The  Spanish  romances 
of  "  the  lineage  of  Amadis  "  are  twelve  in  number,  and  there  are  besides 
doubtful  members  of  the  family  in  Italian  and  French. 

^  Olivante  de  Laxra^  by  Antonio  de  Torquemada,  appeared  first  at  Bar- 
celona in  1564:.  Gayangos  suggests  that  Cervantes  must  have  been  think- 
ing of  a  later  quarto  or  octavo  edition,  for  the  original  folio  is  not  so 


CHAPTER     VI.  33 

"  The  author  of  that  book,"  said  the  curate,  "  was  the  same 
that  wrote  '  The  Gardeu  of  Flowers,'  and  truly  there  is  no 
deciding  which  of  the  two  books  is  the  more  truthful,  or,  to 
put  it  better,  the  less  lying  ;  all  I  can  say  is,  send  this  one 
into  the  yard  for  a  swaggering  fool." 

"  This  that  follows  is  '  Florismarte  of  Hircania,' "  said  the 
barber.^ 

<'  Senor  Florismarte  here  ?  "  said  the  curate  ;  ^'  then  by  my 
faith  he  must  take  up  his  quarters  in  the  yard,  in  s})ite  of  his 
marvellous  birth  and  visionary  adventures,  for  the  stiffness  and 
dryness  of  his  style  deserve  nothing  else ;  into  the  yard  with 
him  and  the  other,  mistress  housekeeper." 

''  With  all  my  heart,  senor,"  said  she,  and  executed  the  order 
with  great  delight. 

"  This,"  said" the  barber,  "  is  '  The  Knight  Platir.'  "  ^ 

"  An  old  book  that,"  said  the  curate,  "  but  I  find  no  reason 
for  clemency  in  it ;  send  it  after  the  others  without  appeal ;  " 
which  was  done. 

Another  book  was  opened,  and  they  saw  it  was  entitled, 
<'  The  Knight  of  the  Cross." 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  holy  name  this  book  has,"  said  the 
curate,  "  its  ignorance  might  be  excused ;  but  then,  they  say, 
'behind  the  cross  there  's  the  devil ;  '  to  the  fire  with  it."  ^ 

Taking  down  another  book,  the  barber  said,  ''  This  is  '  The 
Mirror  of  Chivalry.'  "  * 

exceptionally  stout  as  the  description  in  the  text  implies.  The  Garden  of 
Flowers  (1575),  a  treatise  of  wonders  natural  and  sujiernatural,  was 
translated  into  English  in  1(500,  as  The  Spanish  Mandeville,  a  title  which 
may  seem  to  justify  the  curate's  criticism ;  but  it  does  not  come  witJi  a 
good  grace  from  Cervantes,  who  made  free  use  of  the  book  in  the  First 
Part  of  Persiles  and  Sigismunda,  and  in  the  Second  Fart  of  Don  Quixote. 
The  book  is  really  an  entertaining  one. 

'  The  correct  title  is  IHstoria  del  miiy  Animoso  y  Esforzado  Principe 
Felixmarte  de  Hircania.:  but  the  hero  is  also  called  Florismarte.  It  was 
by  Melchor  Ortega  de  Ubeda,  and  appeared  in  1556. 

^Platir  is  the  fourth  book  of  the  Palmerin  Series.  The  hero  is  tlie  son 
of  Primaleon,  and  grandson  of  Palmerin  de  Oliva.  Its  author  is  unknown. 
It  appeared  first  in  1533. 

^  The  Knight  of  the  Cross  appeared  in  two  parts  :  the  first,  under  the 
title  of  Lepolemo.,  by  an  unknown  author,  in  1543;  the  second,  with  the 
achievements  of  Leandro  el  BeU  the  son  of  Lepolemo,  by  Pedro  de  Luxan, 
in  15G3.  "Behind  the  Cross,"  etc.,  Prov.  75,  was  evidently  a  favorite 
proverb  with  Cervantes. 

*  The  Mirror  of  Chivalry —  Espejo  de  Caballerias  —  was  published  at 
Seville  in  four  parts,  1533-50.     Next  to  the  history  of  Charlemagne  and 

Vol.  I.  —  3 


34  DON    QUIXOTE. 

''  I  know  his  worship,"  said  the  curate ;  "  that  is  where 
Seilor  Reinalclos  of  Montalvan  figures  with  his  friends  and  com- 
rades, greater  thieves  than  Cacus,  and  the  Twelve  Peers  of 
France  with  the  veracious  historian  Turpin  ;  however,  I  am  not 
for  condemning  them  to  more  tlian  per})etiial  banishment,  be- 
cause, at  any  rate,  they  have  some  share  in  the  invention  of 
the  famous  Matteo  Boiardo,  Avhence  too  the  Christian  poet 
Ludovico  Ariosto  wove  his  web,  to  whom,  if  I  find  him  here, 
and  speaking  any  Language  but  his  own,  I  shall  show  no  respect 
whatever ;  but  if  he  speaks  his  own  tongue  I  will  put  him 
upon  my  head."  ^ 

"  Well,  I  have  him  in  Italian,"  said  the  barber,  "  but  I  do 
not  understand  him." 

"Nor  would  it  be  well  that  you  should  understand  him," 
said  the  curate,  "  and  on  that  score  we  might  have  excused  the 
Captain  ^  if  he  had  not  brought  him  into  Spain  and  turned  him 
into  Castilian.  He  robbed  him  of  a  great  deal  of  his  natural 
force,  and  so  do  all  those  who  try  to  turn  books  written  in  verse 
into  another  language,  for,  with  all  the  pains  they  take  and  all 
the  cleverness  they  show,  they  never  can  reach  the  level  of  the 
originals  as  they  were  first  produced.  In  short,  I  say  that  this 
book,  and  all  that  may  be  found  treating  of  those  French 
affairs,  should  he  thrown  into  or  deposited  in  some  dry  well, 
until  after  more  consideration  it  is  settled  what  is  to  be  done 
with  them ;  excepting  always  one  '  Bernardo  del  Carpio ' 
that  is  going  about,  and  another  called  <  Eoncesvalles ; '  for 
these,  if  they  come  into  my  hands,  shall  pass  into  those  of 

tlie  Twelve  Peers,  it  was  the  most  popular  of  the  Carlovingian  series  of 
romances.  It  is  creditable  to  Cervantes  as  a  critic  that  he  should  liavc 
mentioned  Boiardo  as  he  does,  at  a  time  wlu^i  it  was  the  fasliion  to  regard 
tlie  Orlando  Innainoraio  as  a  rude  and  semi-l)arbarous  production,  only 
endurable  in  the  rifacimento  of  Ludovico  Domenichi. 

'  An  Oriental  mode  of  showing  resj)ect  for  a  document. 

^  Geronimo  Jimenez  de  Urrea,  whose  translation  of  Ariosto  into  Spanisli 
was  first  printed  at  Antwerp  in  1549.  This  is  not  the  only  passage  in 
which  Cervantes  declares  against  translation.  In  cluipter 'ixii.  of  the 
Second  Part  he  puts  his  objection  still  more  strongly,  and  there  extends  it 
to  translation  of  prose.  And  yet  of  all  great  writer's  there  is  not  one  who 
is  under  such  obligations  to  translation  as  Cervantes.  The  influence  of 
Homer  and  Virgil  would  be  scarcely  less  than  it  is  if  they  had  never  been 
translated ;  Shakespeare  and  Milton  wrote  in  a  language  destined  to  be- 
come the  most  widely  read  on  tlie  face  of  the  globe,  and  no  reader  of  any 
culture  needs  an  interpreter  for  Moliere  or  Le  Sage.  But  how  would 
Cervantes  have  fared  in  the  world  if,  according  to  his  own  principles,  he 
had  been  confined  to  his  native  Castilian? 


CHAPTER    VI.  35 

tlie  housekeeper,  aiul  fvoiu  hers  into  the  lire  without  any  rr- 
prieve."  ^ 

To  all  this  the  barber  gave  his  assent,  and  looked  upon  it 
as  right  and  proper,  being  persuaded  that  the  curate  was  so 
stanch  to  the  Faith  antl  loyal  to  the  Truth  that  he  would 
not  for  the  world  say  anything  opposed  to  them.  Opening 
another  book  he  saw  it  was  "  Palmerin  de  Oliva,"  and  beside 
it  was  another  called  ''  Palmerin  of  England,"  seeing  which 
the  licentiate  said,  ''  Let  the  Olive  be  made  firewood  of  at 
once  and  burned  until  no  ashes  even  are  left ;  and  let  that 
Palm  of  England  be  ke])t  and  preserved  as  a  thing  that 
stands  alone,  and  let  such  another  case  be  made  for  it  as 
that  which  Alexander  found  among  the  spoils  of  Darius 
and  set  aside  for  the  safe  keeping  of  the  words  of  the  poet 
Homer.  This  book,  gossip,  is  of  avithority  for  two  reasons, 
first  because  it  is  very  good,  and  secondly  because  it  is  said 
to  have  been  written  by  a  wise  and  witty  king  of  Portugal. "-^ 
All  the  adventures  at  the  Castle  of  Miraguarda  ^  are  excellent 
and  of  admirable  contrivance,  and  the  language  is  polished 
and  clear,  studying  and  observing  the  style  befitting  the 
speaker  with  propriety  and  jiulgment.  So  then,  provided  it 
seems  good  to  you,  Master  Nicholas,  I  say  let  this  and 
'  Amadis  of  Gaul '  be  remitted  the  penalty  of  fire,  and  as 
for  all  the  rest,  let  them  perish  without  further  question  or 
query." 

"Nay,  gossip,"  "said  the  barber,  "for  this  that  1  have  hei'e 
is  the  famous  '  Don  Belianis.'  "  * 

'  The  condemnt'd  books  are  the  History  of  the  deeds  of  Bernardo  del 
Carpio,  by  Augustin  Alonso  of  Sahimanca  (Toledo,  1585)  :  and  the  Fa- 
mous Battle  of  Roncesvalles^  by  Francisco  Garrido  de  Villena  (Valencia, 
1555). 

*  Palmerin  de  Oliva,  the  founder  of  the  Palmerin  Series  of  Romances, 
was  first  printed  at  Salamanca  in  1511.  It  is  said  to  have  been  written 
by  a  lady  of  Augustobriga  (i.e.  Burgos,  according  to  some,  but  more 
probably  Ciudad  Kodrigo),  but  nothing  certain  is  known  of  the  author. 
Palmerin  de  Inglaterra,  like  Amadis,  was  until  lately  supposed  to  be, 
as  Cervantes  supposed  it,  of  Portuguese  origin ;  but  the  question  was 
settled  a  few  years  ago  by  Vincente  Salva,  who  discovered  a  Toledo  edi- 
tion of  1547,  twenty  year.s  earlier  than  the  Portuguese  edition  on  which 
the  claims  of  Francisco  de  Moraes,  or  of  John  II  ,  rested.  An  acrostic 
gives  the  name  of  the  author,  Luis  Hurtado. 

^  Miraguarda  is  not  the  name  of  the  Castle,  but  of  the  lady  who  lived  in 
it,  and  whose  charms  were  the  cause  of  the  adventures. 

^  Belianis  de  Grecia,  already  mentioned  in  the  first  chapter  as  one  of 
Don  Quixote's  special  studies. 


36  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"Well,"  said  the  curate,  "that  aud  the  second,  third,  and 
fourth  parts  all  stand  in  need  of  a  little  rhubarb  to  purge 
their  excess  of  bile,  and  they  must  be  cleared  of  all  that 
stiiff  alwut  the  Castle  of  Fame  and  other  greater  affectations, 
to  which  end  let  them  be  allowed  the  over-seas  term,^  and, 
according  as  they  mend,  so  shall  mercy  or  justice  be  meted 
out  to  them ;  and  in  the  meantime,  gossip,  do  you  keep  them 
in  your  house  and  let  no  one  read  them." 

"  "With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  barber  ;  and  not  caring  to  tire 
himself  with  reading  more  books  of  chivalry,  he  told  the  house- 
keeper to  take  all  the  big  ones  and  throw  them  into  the  yard. 
It  was  not  said  to  one  dull  or  deaf,  but  to  one  Avho  enjoyed 
burning  them  more  than  weaving  the  broadest  and  finest  web 
that  could  be  ;  and  seizing  about  eight  at  a  time,  she  flung  them 
out  of  the  window. 

In  carrying  so  many  together  she  let  one  fall  at  the  feet  of  the 
barber,  who  took  it  up,  curious  to  know  whose  it  was,  and  found 
it  said,  "  History  of  the  Famous  Knight,  Tirante  el  Blanco." 

"  Cxod  bless  me  !  "  said  the  curate  with  a  shout,  "  'Tirante 
el  Blanco  '  here  !  Hand  it  over,  gossip,  for  in  it  I  reckon  I 
have  found  a  treasury  of  enjoyment  and  a  mine  of  recreation. 
Here  is  Don  Kyrieleison  of  Montalvan^  a  valiant  knight,  and 
his  brother  Thomas  of  Montalvan,  and  the  knight  Fonseca,  with 
the  battle  .the  bold  Tirante  fought  with  the  mastiff,  and  the 
witticisms  of  the  damsel  Placerdemivida.  and  the  loves  and 
wiles  of  the  widow  Reposada,  and  the  empress  in  love  with  the 
squire  Hipolito  —  in  truth,  gossip,  by  right  of  its  style  it  is  the 
best  book  in  the  world.  Here  knights  eat  and  sleep,  and  die 
in  their  beds,  and  make  their  wills  before  dying,  and  a  great 
deal  more  of  which  there  is  nothing  in  all  the  other  books. 
Nevertheless,  I  say  he  who  wrote  it,  for  deliberately  composing 
such  fooleries,  deserves  to  be  sent  to  the  galleys  for  life.  Take 
it  home  with  you  and  read  it,  and  you  will  see  that  what  I  have 
said  is  true."  ^ 

'  Tlie  "  over-seas  term  "  was  tlie  allowance  of  time  granted  in  the  case 
of  i)ersons  beyond  the  seas,  wlien  sued  or  indicted,  to  enable  them  to 
appear  and  show  cause  why  judgment  sliould  not  lie  given  against  them. 

2  Tirante  el  Blanco  is  the  title  of  tlie  translation  into  Castilian  of  the 
romance  of  Tirant  lo  Blanch,  first  published  in  Valencian  at  Valencia  in 
1490.  Joanot  Martorell,  who  is  said  to  have  translated  it  from  English 
into  Portuguese  and  thence  into  Valencian,  was  no  doubt  the  author. 
Only  three  copies  are  known  to  exist,  one  in  the  University  at  Valencia, 
anotluT  in  the  College  of  the  Sapienza  in  Rome,  and  the  third  in  the 
British  Museum.     The  Castilian  version  appeared  at  Valladolid  in  1511. 


CHAPTER     VL  87 

"  As  you  will,"  said  the  barber  ;  "  but  what  arc  we  to  do  with 
these  little  books  that  are  left  ?  " 

"■  These  must  be,  not  chivalry,  but  poetry,"  said  the  curate  ; 
and  opening  one  he  saw  it  was  the  "  Diana  "  of  Jorge  de  Mon- 
temayor,  and,  supposing  all  the  others  to  be  of  the  same  sort, 
''  these,"  he  said,  "  do  not  deserve  to  be  burned  like  the  others, 
for  they  neither  do  nor  can  do  the  mischief  the  books  of  chivalry 
have  done,  being  books  of  entertainment  that  can  hurt  no  one." 

"  Ah,  senor  !  "  said  the  niece,  "  your  worship  had  better 
order  these  to  be  burned  as  well  as  the  others ;  for  it  would  l)e 
no  wonder  if,  after  being  cured  of  his  chivalry  disorder,  my 
uncle,  by  reading  these,  took  a  fancy  to  turn  shepherd  and 
range  the  woods  and  fields  singing  and  piping  ;  or,  what  would 
be  still  worse,  to  turn  poet,  wduch  they  say  is  an  incurable  and 
infectious  malady." 

"  The  damsel  is  right,"  said  the  curate,  "  and  it  will  be  well 
to  put  this  stumbling-block  and  temi)tation  out  of  our  friend's 
Avay.  To  begin,  then,  with  the  '  Diana  '  of  Montemayor.  I  am  of 
opinion  it  should  not  be  burned,  but  that  it  should  be  cleared 
of  all  that  about  the  sage  Felicia  and  the  magic  water,  and  of 
almost  all  the  longer  pieces  of  verse  ;  let  it  keep,  and  welcome, 
its  prose  and  the  honor  of  being  the  first  of  books  of  the 
kind." 

"This  that  comes  next,"  said  the  barber,  "is  the  'Diana,' 
entitled  the  '  Second  Part,  by  the  Salamancan,'  and  this  other 
has  the  same  title,  and  its  author  is  Gil  Polo." 

"  As  for  that  of  the  Salamancan,"  replied  the  curate,  "  let  it 
go  to  swell  the  number  of  the  condemned  in  the  yard,  and  let 
Gil  Polo's  be  preserved  as  if  it  came  from  Apollo  himself;  ^  but 
get  on,  gossip,  and  make  haste,  for  it  is  grooving  late." 

"This  book,"  said  the  barber,  opening  another,  "is  the  ten 

Dull  r;i.scual  de  Gayangos  is  in  doubt  whether  the  cm-ate's  eulugy  is  to 
be  taken  as  ironical  or  serious,  but  rather  inclines  to  the  belief  that  C'er- 
A'antes  meant  to  praise  the  book.  It  would  be  rash  to  differ  witli  such  an 
authority,  otherwise  I  should  say  that  the  laudation  is  rather  too  boister- 
ously expressed  and  too  like  the  extravagant  eulogy  of  Lo  Frasso  farther 
on,  to  ])e  sincerely  meant. 

^  Los  Siete  Libros  de  la  Diana  de  Jorge  de  Montemayor.  Lnpreso  en 
Valencia,  4to.  The  first  edition  is  undated,  and  from  tlie  dedication 
appears  to  have  been  printed  in  the  author's  lifetime.  He  died  in  1561, 
in  which  year  the  second  edition,  with  additions,  appeared.  (  V.  note  1, 
page  2S.)  The  Diana  was  the  first  and  best  of  the  Sjjanish  pastoral 
romances,  the  taste  for  which  was  created  l)y  Sannazaro's  Arcadia.  The 
Salamancan  was  Alonso  Perez,  who  published  a  continuation  of  the 
Diana  at  Alcala  de  Henares  in  150-1,  but  Gil  Polo's,  printed  the  same  year 


38  DON    QUIXOTE. 

bucks  of  the  '  Fortune  of  Love,'  written  by  Antonio  de  Lo- 
fraso,  a  Sardinian  poet." 

"  By  the  orders  I  have  received,"  said  the  curate,  "since 
Apollo  has  been  Apollo,  and  the  Muses  have  been  Muses, -and 
poets  have  been  poets,  so  droll  and  absurd  a  book  as  this  has 
never  been  written,  and  in  its  way  it  is  the  best  and  the  most 
singular  of  all  of  this  species  that  have  as  yet  appeared,  and 
he  who  has  not  read  it  may  be  sure  he  has  never  read  what  is 
delightful.  Give  it  here,  gossip,  for  I  make  more  account  of 
having  found  it  than  if  they  had  given  me  a  cassock  of  Flor- 
ence stuff."  ^ 

He  put  it  aside  with  extreme  satisfacti(jn,  and  the  barber 
went  on,  "  These  that  come  next  are  '  The  Shepherd  of  Iberia,' 
'  The  Nymphs  of  Henares,'  and  '  The  Enlightenment  of  Jeal- 
ousy.' "  ■' 

''  Then  all  we  have  to  do,"  said  the  curate,  '•  is  to  hand  them 
over  to  the  secular  arm  of  the  housekeeper,  and  ask  me  not 
Avhy,  or  we  shall  never  have  done." 

"  This  next  is  the  '  Pastor  de  Filida.'  " 

"  ISTo  I'astor  that,"'  said  the  curate,  "  but  a  highly  polished 
courtier  ;  let  it  be  preserved  as  a  precious  jewel."  ^ 

"  This  large  one  here,"  said  the  barber,  "  is  called  '  The 
Treasury  of  varioiis  Poems.'  " 

"  If  there  were  not  so  many  of  them,"  said  the  curate, 
"  they  would  be  more  relished  :  this  book  must  be  weeded  and 
cleansed  of  certain  vulgarities   which  it  has  with   its  excel- 

iit  Valencia,  has  been  generally  preferred.  Tlie  pun  on  Polo  and  Apolo 
is  not  so  obvious  in  English.  An  excellent  English  translation  of  all 
three  by  Bartholomew  Yong  was  published  in  lo!)8. 

'The  Fort  lain  iVAmor,  ijor  Antonio  de  lo  Frasso^  Militar,  Sardo,  ap- 
peared at  Barcelona  in  1573.  In  the  Viage  del  Parnaso  Cervantes  treats 
the  book  in  the  same  bantering  strain,  which  misled  Pedro  de  Pineda,  one 
of  the  editors  of  Lord  Carteret's  (-Quixote,  and  induced  him  to  bring  out  a 
new  edition  in  1740.  The  book  is  an  utterly  worthless  one,  and  highly 
prized  by  collectors. 

^  The  bool^s  here  referred  to  are  the  Pastor  de  Iberia,  by  Bernardo  de  la 
Vega  (Seville,  1591)  ;  the  Nimphas  y  Pastores  de  Henares,  by  Bernardo 
Gonzalez  de  Bovadilla  (Alcala  de  Henares,  1587)  ;  and  the  Desengano  de 
Zelos,  by  Bartolme  Lopes  de  Enciso  (Madrid,  158(5). 

='The  Pastor  de  Filida  (Madrid,  1582),  one  of  the  best  of  the  pastorals, 
-was  by  Luis  Galvez  de  Montalvo  of  Guadalajara,  a  retainer  of  the  great 
Mendoza  family,  and  apparently  an  intimate  personal  friend  of  Cervantes, 
Avho,  under  the  name  of  Tirsi,  is  referred  to  in  the  pastoral  as  a  clai-is- 
simo  ingenio  worthy  of  being  mentioned  with  Ercilla.  Montalvo,  in 
return,  is  introduced  under  the  name  of  Siralvo  into  the  Galatea  of 
Cervantes,  to  which  he  contributed  a  complimentary  sonnet. 


CHAPTER     VT.  39 

lences  ;  let  it  be  preserved  because  the  author  is  a  friend  of 
mine,  and  out  of  respect  for  other  more  heroic  and  loftier  works 
that  he  has  written."  ^ 

''  This,"  continued  the  barber,  "  is  the  '  Cancionero '  of 
Lopez  de  Maldonado."  - 

"  The  author  of  that  book,  too,"'  said  the  curate,  "  is  a  great 
friend  of  mine,  and  his  verses  from  his  own  mouth  are  tlie 
admiration  t)f  all  who  hear  them,  for  such  is  the  sweetness  of 
his  voice  that  he  enchants  when  he  chants  them :  it  gives 
rather  too  much  of  its  eclogues,  but  what  is  good  was  never  yet 
plentiful :  ^  let  it  be  kept  with  those  that  have  been  set  apart. 
But  what  book  is  that  next  it  ?  " 

"  The  '  (xalatea  '  of  Miguel  de  Cervantes,"  said  the  barber. 

"  That  Cervantes  has  been  for  many  years  a  great  friend  of 
mine,  and  to  my  knowledge  he  has  had  more  experience  in 
reverses  than  in  verses.  His  book  has  some  good  invention  in 
it,  it  presents  us  with  something  but  brings  nothing  to  a  con- 
clusion :  we  must  wait  for  the  Second  Part  it  promises  :  per- 
haps with  amendment  it  may  succeed  in  winning  the  fidl 
measure  of  grace  that  is  now  denied  it ;  and  in  the  meantime 
do  you,  senor  gossip,  keep  it  shut  up  in  your  oavu  quarters."'* 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  barber  ;  "  and  here  come  three  to- 
gether, the  '  Araucana '  of  Don  Alonso  de  Ercilla,  the  '  Aus- 
triada '  of  Juan  llufo,  Justice  of  Cordova,  and  the  '  Montserrate  ' 
of  Christobal  de  A^irues,  the  Valencian  poet."  ^ 

'  Tesoro  de  varias  Poesias^  compuesto  por  Pedro  de  Pndilla  (Madrid, 
1580).  The  autliur  is  one  of  those  j)raised  by  Cervantes  in  the  "  Canto 
de  Caliope  "  in  the  Galaiea. 

2  Lopez  de  Maldonado,  whose  Cancionero  appeared  at  Madrid  in  158fi, 
is  another  of  the  poets  praised  in  the  Galatea. 

3  Prov.  2C. 

*  Tlie  phiy  upon  words  in  the  original  is  "  more  versed  in  misfortunes 
than  in  verses."  This  introduction  of  himself  and  his  forgotten  jjastoral 
is  Cervantes  all  over  in  its  tone  of  playful  stoieism  with  a  certain  quiet 
self-assertion.  It  shows,  moreover,  pretty  clearly,  that  until  Don  Quixote 
had  made  the  author's  name  known,  the  Galatea  had  remained  unnoticed. 

*  These  three  are  examples  of  Spanish  epic  poetry.  The  Araucana  oi 
Ercilla  (Madrid,  inr)!*,  l.")78,  lo'.IO)  is,  next  to  the  Poera  of  the  Cid,  the 
})est  effort  in  that  direction  in  the  language.  The  Aiistriada,  which 
appeared  first  at  Madrid  in  158-1:,  deals  with  the  life  and  achievements  of 
Don  John  of  Austria,  hut  it  M'as  probably  the  memory  of  Lepanto  rather 
than  the  merits  of  the  poem  that  made  Cervantes  give  it  a  place  here. 
The  Montserrate  of  the  dramatist  Virues  (Madrid,  1588)  had  for  its  sub- 
ject the  repulsive  (Oriental  legend  which  l)ecame  popular  in  Spain  with 
Garin  the  liermit  of  Monserrat  for  its  hero,  and  which  M.  G.  Lewis  made 
the  foundation  of  his  famous  romance,  The  Monk. 


40  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  Tliese  three  books,"  said  the  curate,  "  are  the  best  that  have 
been  written  in  Castilian  in  heroic  verse,  and  they  may  com- 
pare with  the  most  famous  in  Italy  ;  let  them  be  preserved  as 
the  richest  treasures  of  poetry  that  Spain  possesses." 

The  curate  was  tired  and  would  not  look  into  any  more 
books,  and  so  he  decided  that,  "  contents  uncertified/'  all  the 
rest  should  be  biirned ;  l)ut  just  then  the  barber  held  open  one, 
called  "  The  Tears  of  Angelica." 

"  I  should  have  shed  tears  myself,"  said  the  curate  when  he 
heard  the  title,  "  had  I  ordered  that  book  to  be  burned,  for  its 
author  was  one  of  the  famous  poets  of  the  world,  not  to  say  of 
S])ain,  and  was  very  happy  in  the  translation  of  some  of  Ovid's 
fables."  1 


CHAPTER     VII. 

OF    THE    SECONI?    SALLY    OF    OUK    WORTHY    KNIGHT     DON 
QUIXOTE    OF    LA    MANCHA. 

At  this  instant  Don  Quixote  began  shouting  out,  "  Here,  here, 
valiant  knights  !  here  is  need  for  you  to  put  forth  the  might 
of  your  strong  arms,  for  they  of  the  Court  are  gaining  the  mas- 
tery in  the  tourney  !  "  Called  away  by  this  noise  and  outcry, 
they  proceeded  no  farther  with  the  scrutiny  of  the  remaining 
books,  and  so  it  is  thought  that  "  The  Carolea,"  "  The  Lion  of 
S})ain,"  and  "  The  Deeds  of  the  Emperor,"  written  by  Don  Luis 
de  Avila,  went  to  the  fire  unseen  and  unheard ;  for  no  doubt 
they  were  among  those  that  remained,  and  perhaps  if  the  curate 
had  seen  them  they  would  not  have  undergone  so  severe  a  sen- 
tence." - 

^  The  anti-climax  liere  almost  equals  that  famous  one  of  Waller's  • 

"  Under  the  tropic  is  our  language  spoke, 
And  part  of  Flanders  hath  received  our  yoke." 

The  book  referred  to  was  entitled  simply  the  Angelica  by  Luis  Barahona 
de  Soto  (Madrid,  1.58G).  In  his  praise  of  tliis  poem  we  have  one  more 
instance  of  Cervantes'  loyalty  to  a  friend  getting  the  l)etter  of  his  critical 
judgment. 

'^  The  books  referred  to  are  the  Carolea  of  Geronimo  Sempere  (15G0), 
which  deals  with  the  victories  of  Charles  V.;  the  Leon  de  Espana,  by 
Pedro  de  la  Vezilla,  a  poem  on  the  history  of  the  city  of  Leon ;  and, 
probably,  the  Carlo  Famoso  of  Louis  Zapata,  for  there  is  no  book  known 
witli  the  title  of  The  Deeds  of  the  Emperor^  and  the  work  of  Avila  is 
simply  a  prose  commentary  on  tlu'  wars  against  the  Protestants  of  Ger- 
man v. 


CHAPTER    VII.  41 

When  they  reached  Don  Quixote  he  was  ah-eady  out  of  bed, 
and  was  still  shouting  and  raving,  and  slashing  and  cutting  all 
round,  as  wide  awake  as  if  he  had  never  slept. 

They  closed  with  him  and  by  force  got  him  back  to  bed,  and 
when  he  had  become  a  little  calm,  addressing  the  curate,  he 
said  to  him,  "  Of  a  truth,  Seiior  Archbishop  Turpin,^  it  is  a 
great  disgrace  for  us  who  call  ourselves  the  Twelve  Peers,  so 
carelessly  to  allow  the  knights  of  the  (A)urt  to  gain  the  victory 
in  this  tourney,  we  the  adventurers  having  carried  off  the 
honor  on  the  three  former  days." 

"  Hush,  gossip,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  please  God,  the  luck  may 
turn,  and  what  is  lost  to-day  may  be  won  to-morrow  ;  -  for  the 
present  let  your  worship  have  a  care  of  your  health,  for  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  over-fatigued,  if  not  badly  woimded." 

''  Wounded  no,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  but  bruised  and  bat- 
tered no  doubt,  for  that  bastard  Don  Eoland  has  cudgelled  me 
with  the  trunk  of  an  oak  tree,  and  all  for  envy,  because  he 
sees  that  I  alone  rival  him  in  his  achievements.  But  I  should 
not  call  myself  Reinaldos  of  Montalvan  did  he  not  pay  me  for 
it  in  spite  of  all  his  enchantments  as  soon  as  I  rise  from  this 
bed.  For  the  present  let  them  bring  me  something  to  eat,  for 
that,  I  feel,  is  what  will  be  more  to  my  purpose,  and  leave  it 
to  me  to  avenge  myself." 

They  did  as  he  wished ;  they  gave  him  something  to  eat, 
and  once  more  he  fell  asleep,  leaving  them  marvelling  at  his 
madness. 

That  night  the  housekeeper  burned  to  ashes  all  the  books 
that  were  in  the  yard  and  in  the  whole  house ;  and  some  must 
have  been  consumed  that  deserved  preservation  in  everlasting 
archives,  but  their  fate  and  the  laziness  of  the  examiner  did 
not  permit  it,  and  so  in  them  was  verified  the  proverb  that 
sometimes  the  innocent  suffer  for  the  guilty.'^ 

One  of  the  remedies  which  the  curate  and  the  barber  im- 
mediately applied  to  their  friend's  disorder  was  to  wall  up 
and  plaster  the  room  where  the  books  were,  so  that  when  he 
got  lip  he  should  not  find  them  (possibly  the  cause  being  re- 

'  Turpin  (or  Tilpin),  Charlemagne's  chiiplain,  and  Archbishop  of 
Rheims  :  according  to  the  Chanson  de  Roland,  one  of  those  shiin  at 
lloncesvalles  ;  but  also  claimed  as  anther  of  tlie  Chronicle  of  Charleniagne., 
which,  however,  was  probal)ly  not  composed  before  the  end  of  the  elev- 
enth or  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century.  He  died  in  the  year  of  the 
Roncesvalles  rout,  778. 

2  Prov.  ISS.  ■■'  Frov.  16.5. 


42  DON    QUIXOTE. 

moved,  the  effect  might  cease),  and  they  might  say  that  a 
magician  had  carried  them  off,  room  and  all ;  and  this  was 
done  with  all  despatch.  Two  days  later  Don  Quixote  got  up, 
and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  go  and  look  at  his  books,  and 
not  finding  the  room  where  he  had  left  it,  he  wandered  from 
side  to  side  looking  for  it.  He  came  to  the  place  where  the 
door  used  to  be,  and  tried  it  with  his  hands,  and  turned  and 
twisted  his  eyes  in  every  direction  without  saying  a  word  ;  but 
after  a  good  while  he  asked  his  housekeeper  whereabouts  was 
the  room  that  held  his  liooks. 

The  housekeeper,  who  had  been  already  well  instructed  in 
what  she  was  to  answer,  said,  "  What  room  or  what  nothing  is 
it  that  your  worship  is  looking  for  ?  There  are  neither  room 
nor  books  in  this  house  now,  for  the  devil  himself  has  carried 
all  away." 

"  It  was  not  the  devil,"  said  the  niece,  "  but  a  magician  who 
came  on  a  cloud  one  night  after  the  day  your  worship  left  this, 
and  dismounting  from  a  serpent  that  he  rode  he  entered  the 
room,  and  what  he  did  there  I  know  not,  but  after  a  little 
while  he  made  off,  flying  through  the  roof,  and  left  the  house 
full  of  smoke ;  and  Avhen  we  went  to  see  what  he  had  done 
we  saw  neither  book  nor  room :  but  M^e  remember  very  well, 
.the  housekeeper  and  I,  that  on  leaving,  the  old  villain  said 
in  a  loud  voice  that,  for  a  private  grudge  he  owed  the  owner 
of  the  books  and  the  room,  he  had  done  mischief  in  that  house 
that  would  be  discovered  by  and  by  :  he  said  too  that  his  name 
was  the  Sage  Munaton." 

"  He  must  have  said  Friston,"  ^  said  Don  Quixote. 

'^  I  don't  know  whether  he  called  himself  Friston  or  Friton," 
said  the  housekeeper,  '<■  I  only  know  that  his  name  ended  with 
'  ton.' " 

"  So  it  does,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  he  is  a  sage  magician, 
a  great  enemy  of  mine,  who  has  a  spite  against  me  because  he 
knows  by  his  arts  and  lore  that  in  process  of  time  I  am  to  en- 
gage in  single  combat  with  a  knight  whom  he  befriends  and 
that  I  am  to  conquer,  and  he  will  be  unable  to  prevent  it ; 
and  for  this  reason  he  endeavors  to  do  me  all  the  ill  turns 
that  he  can ;  but  I  promise  him  it  will  be  hard  for  him  to 
oppose  or  avoul  what  is  decreed  by  Heaven." 

"Who  doubts  that?"  said  the  niece;  "but,  uncle,  who 
mixes  you  up  in  these  quarrels  ?     Would  it  not  be  better  to 

'Friston,  a  magician,  the  reputed  author  of  Belianis  de  Grecia. 


CHAPTER     VII.  43 

remain  at  peace  in  your  own  house  instead  of  roaming  the 
world  looking  for  better  bread  than  ever  came  of  wheat/ 
never  reflecting  that  many  go  for  wool  and  come  back 
shorn  ?  "  '^ 

"  Oh,  niece  of  mine,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  ''  how  much 
astray  art  thou  in  thy  reckoning :  ere  they  shear  me  I  shall 
have  plucked  away  and  stripped  off  the  beards  of  all  who 
would  dare  to  touch  only  the  tip  of  a  hair  of  mine." 

The  two  were  luiwilling  to  make  any  further  answer,  as 
they  saw  that  his  anger  was  kindling. 

In  short,  then,  he  remained  at  home  fifteen  days  very  quietly 
without  showing  any  signs  of  a  desire  to  take  up  with  his 
former  delusions,  and  during  this  time  he  held  lively  discus- 
sions with  his  two  gossips,  the  curate  and  the  barber,  on  the 
point  he  maintained,  that  knights-errant  were  Avhat  the  world 
stood  most  in  need  of,  and  that  in  him  was  to  be  accomplished 
the  revival  of  knight-errantry.  The  curate  sometimes  con- 
tradicted him,  sometimes  agreed  with  him,  for  if  he  had  not' 
observed  this  precaution  he  would  have  been  unable  to  bring 
him  to  reason. 

Meanwhile  Don  Quixote  worked  upon  a  farm  laborer,  a 
neighbor  of  his,  an  honest  man  (if  indeed  that  title  can  be 
given  to  him  who  is  poor),  but  with  very  little  wit  in  his 
pate.  In  a  word,  he  so  talked  him  over,  and  with  such  })er. 
suasions  and  promises,  that  the  poor  clown  made  up  his 
mind  to  sally  forth  with  him  and  serve  him  as  esquire. 
Don  Quixote,  among  other  things,  told  him  he  ought  to  be 
ready  to  go  with  him  gladly,  l)ecause  any  moment  an  ad- 
venture might  occur  that  might  win  an  island  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye  and  leave  him  governor  of  it.  On  these  and 
the  like  promises  Sancho  Panza  (for  so  the  laborer  Avas  called) 
left  wife  and  children,  and  engaged  himself  as  esquire  to  his 
neighbor.  Don  Quixote  next  set  about  getting  some  money ; 
and  selling  one  thing  and  pawning  another,  and  making  a 
bad  bargain  in  every  case,  he  got  together  a  fair  sum.  He 
provided    himself   with    a    buckler,    which   he    begged    as    a 

'  Prov.  171.  Biiscar  pan  de  trastrigo :  there  is  some  difference  of 
opinion  as  to  the  meaning  of  trastrigo.^  but  it  seems  on  the  wliole  more 
probable  that  it  means  wheat  of  such  superhitive  quality  as  to  bo  unattain- 
able ;  pt  any  rate,  the  proverb  is  used  in  reference  to  seeking  things  tliat 
are  out  of  reach. 

^  Prov.  124.  A  very  old  proverb,  as  old  at  least  as  the  poem  of  Fernan 
Gonzalez. 


44  DON    QUIXOTE. 

loan  from  a  friend,  and,  restoring  his  battered  helmet  as 
best  he  could,  he  warned  his  squire  Sancho  of  the  day  and 
hour  he  meant  to  set  out,  that  he  might  provide  himself 
with  what  he  thought  most  needful.  Above  all,  he  charged 
him  to  take  alforjas  '  with  him.  The  other  said  he  would, 
and  that  he  meant  to  take  also  a  very  good  ass  he  had,  as 
he  was  not  much  given  to  going  on  foot.  About  the  ass, 
Don  Quixote  hesitated  a  little,  trying  whether  he  could  call 
to  mind  any  knight-errant  taking  with  him-  an  esqiiire 
mounted  on  ass-back,  but  no  instance  occurred  to  his  mem- 
ory. For  all  that,  however,  he  determined  to  take  him, 
intending  to  furnish  him  with  a  more  honorable  mount 
when  a  chance  of  it  presented  itself,  by  ap])ropriating  the 
horse  of  the  first  discourteous  knight  he  encountered.  Him- 
self he  provided  with  shirts  and  such  other  things  as  he 
could,  according  to  the  advice  the  host  had  given  him ;  all 
.which  being  settled  and  done,  without  taking  leave,  Sancho 
Panza  of  his  wife  and  children,  or  Don  Quixote  of  his  house- 
keeper and  niece,  they  sallied  forth  unseen  by  anybody  from 
the  village  one  night,  and  made  such  good  way  in  the  course 
of  it  that  by  daylight  they  held  themselves  safe  from  dis- 
covery, even  should  search  be  made  for  them. 

Sancho  rode  on  his  ass  like  a  patriarch  with  his  alforjas 
and  bota,-  and  longing  to  see  himself  soon  governor  of  the 
island  his  master  had  promised  him.  Don  Quixote  decided 
upon  taking  the  same  route  and  road  he  had  taken  on  his 
first  journey,  that  over  the  Campo  de  Montiel,  which  he 
travelled  with  less  discomfort  than  on  the  last  occasion,  for, 
as  it  was  early  morning  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  fell  on  them 
obliquely,  the  heat  did  not  distress  them. 

And  now  said  Sancho  Panza  to  his  master,  "  Your  M^orshi]) 
will  take  care,  Seiior  Knight-errant,  not  to  forget  about  the 
island  you  have  promised  me,  for  be  it  ever  so  big  I  '11  be 
equ^al  to  governing  it." 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  "  Thou  must  know,  friend 
Sancho  Panza,  that  it  was  a  practice  very  much  in  vogue  with 
the  knights-errant  of  old  to  make  their  squires  governors  of 

^Alforjas — n  sort  of  double  wallet  serving  for  saddle-bags,  but  more 
frequently  carried  slung  across  the  shoulder. 

^  The  hota  is  the  leathern  wine-bag  which  is  as  much  a  part  of  the 
Spanish  wayfarer's  paraphernalia  as  the  alforjas.  It  cannot,  of  course, 
be  properly  translated  "  bottle." 


CHAPTER    VI  i.  45 

the  islands  or  kingdoms  tiiey  won,^  and  I  am  determined  that 
there  shall  be  no  failure  on  my  part  in  so  liberal  a  custom  ;  on 
the  contrary,  I  mean  to  improve  upon  it,  for  they  sometimes, 
and  perhaps  most  frequently,  waited  until  their  squires  were 
old,  and  then  when  they  had  had  enough  of  service  and  hard 
days  and  worse  nights,  they  gave  them  some  title  or  other,  of 
count,  or  at  the  most  marquis,  of  some  valley  or  province  more 
or  less  ;  but  if  thou  livest  and  I  live,  it  may  well  be  that  be- 
fore six  days  are  over,  I  may  have  won  some  kingdom  that  has 
others  de})endent  upon  it,  which  will  be  just  the  thing  to  enable 
thee  to  be  crowned  king  of  one  of  them.  Nor  needst  thou  count 
this  wonderfrd,  for  things  and  chances  fall  to  the  lot  of  such 
knights  in  ways  so  unexamjded  and  unexpected  that  I  might 
easily  give  thee  even  more  than  I  promise  thee." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Sancho  Panza,  "  if  I  should  become  a 
king  by  one  of  those  miracles  your  worship  speaks  of,  even 
Juana  Gutierrez,  my  old  woman, ^  would  come  to  be  queen  and 
my  children  infantes." 

"  Well,  who  doubts  it  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  doubt  it,"  replied  Sancho  Panza,  "  because  for  my  part  I 
am  persuaded  that  though  God  shoidd  shower  down  kingdoms 
upon  earth,  not  one  of  them  would  fit  the  head  of  Mari  Gu- 
tierrez. Let  me  tell  you,  seiior,  she  is  not  worth  two  maravedis 
for  a  queen  ;  countess  will  fit  her  better,  and  that  only  with 
God's  help." 

"  Leave  it  to  God,  Sancho,"  returned  Don  Quixote,  "  for  he 
will  give  her  what  suits  her  best ;  but  do  not  undervalue  thy- 
self so  much  as  to  come  to  be  content  with  anything  less  than 
being  governor  of  a  province." 

"  I  will  not,  senor,"  answered  Sancho,  "  especially  as  I  have 
a  ma,n  of  such  quality  for  a  master  in  your  worship,  who  will 
be  able  to  give  me  all  that  will  be  suitable  for  me  and  that  I 
can  bear." 

'  Amadis,  for  instance,  made  his  .squire  Gandalin  governor  of  the  In- 
sula Firme. 

^mioislo,  a  sort  of  pet-name  for  a  wife  in  old  Spanish  among  the 
lower  orders  : 

"  Aciierda  de  sn  oislo 
Mirando  en  pobre  casa." 


46  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

or  THE  GOOD  FORTUNE  WHICH  THE  VALIANT  DON  QUIXOTE 
HAD  IN  THE  TERRIBLE  AND  UNDREAMT-OF  ADVENTURE  OF 
THE  WINDMILLS,  WITH  OTHER  OCCURRENCES  WORTHY  TO  BE 
FITLY    RECORDED. 

At  this  point  they  came  in  sight  of  thirty  or  forty  wind- 
mills that  there  are  on  that  plain, ^  and  as  soon  as  DonQnixote 
saw  them  he  said  to  his  squire,  "  Fortnne  is  arranging  niatters 
for  us  better  than  we  could  have  shajjed  our  desires  ourselves, 
for  look  there,  friend  Sancho  Panza,  where  thirty  or  more 
monstrous  giants  present  themselves,  all  of  whom  I  mean  to 
engage  in  l)attle  and  slay,  and  with  whose  spoils  we  shall  be- 
gin to  make  our  fortunes ;  for  this  is  righteous  warfare,  and  it 
is  God's  good  service  to  sweep  so  evil  a  breed  from  off  the  face 
of  the  earth." 

"  What  giants  ?  "  said  Sancho  Panza. 

"  Those  thou  seest  there,"  answered  his  master,  "  with  the 
long  arms,  and  some  have  them  nearly  two  leagues  long." 

"  Look,  your  worship,"  said  Sancho ;  "  what  we  see  there 
are  not  giants  but  windmills,  and  what  seem  to  be  their  arms 
are  the  sails  that  turned  by  tLe  wind  make  the  millstone  tjo." 

"  It  IS  easy  to  see,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  that  thou  art  not 
used  to  this  business  of  adventures ;  those  are  giants  ;  and  if 
tliou  art  afraid,  away  with  thee  out  of  this  and  betake  thyself 
to  prayer  while  I  engage  them  in  tierce  and  unequal  combat." 

So  saying,  he  gave  the  spur  to  his  steed  Rocinante,  heedless 
of  the  cries  his  squire  Sancho  sent  after  him,  warning  him 
that  most  certainly  they  were  Avindmills  and  not  giants  he  was 
going  to  attack.  He,  however,  was  so  positive  they  were 
giants  that  he  neither  heard  the  cries  of  Sancho,  nor  perceived, 
near  as  he  was,  what  they  were,  but  made  at  them  shouting, 
"  Fly  not,  cowards  and  vile  beings,  for  it  is  a  single  knight 
that  attacks  you." 

A  slight  breeze  at  this  moment  sprang  up,  and  the  great  sails 

'  These  famous  windmills  had  not  been  very  long  set  up,  and  owed  their 
existence  to  tlie  failure  of  water-power  in  the'Zancara,  an  affluent  of  the 
(iuadiana,  about  thirty  years  before  Don  Quixote  was  written.  Tliey  are 
scattered  over  the  plain  between  Alcazar  de  S.  Juan  and  Villaharta.  (  V. 
map.) 


y 

'  s> 

s. 

.-•■/■: 


\  f 


A 


.'Vv 


WJ'\ 


THE  WINDMILLS.     VoL  I.     Page  46. 


CHAPTER    VIIL  47 

began  to  move,  seeing  wliicli  Don  Quixote  exclaimed,  "  Tliougli 
ye  flouvisli  more  arms  than  the  giant  Briareus,  ye  have  to 
reckon  with  me." 

So  saying,  and  commending  himself  with  all  his  heart  to 
his  lady  Dulcinea,  imploring  her  to  su])i)ort  him  in  such  a 
peril,  with  lance  in  rest  and  covered  by  his  buckler,  he  charged 
at  Rocinante's  fullest  gallop  and  fell  upon  the  first  mill  that 
stood  in  front  of  him  ;  but  as  he  drove  his  lance-point  into  the 
sail  the  wind  whirled  it  round  with  such  force  that  it  shivered 
the  lance  to  pieces,  sweeping  with  it  horse  and  rider,  avIio  went 
rolling  over  on  the  plain,  in  a  sorry  condition.  Sancho  hastened 
to  his  assistance  as  fast  as  his  ass  could  go,  and  when  he  came 
up  found  him  unable  to  move,  with  such  a  shock  had  Koci- 
nante  fallen  with  him. 

"'God  bless  me!"  said  Sancho,  ''did  I  not  tell  your  wor- 
ship to  mind  what  you  were  al)Out,  for  they  were  only  wind- 
mills ?  and  no  one  could  have  made  any  ndstake  about  it  but 
one  who  had  something  of  the  same  kind  in  his  head." 

"Hush,  friend  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  ''the  fortunes 
of  war  more  than  any  other  are  lial)le  to  frecpient  fluctuations ; 
and  moreover  I  think,  and  it  is  the  truth,  that  that  same  sage 
Friston  who  carried  off  my  study  and  books,  has  turned  these 
giants  into  mills  in  order  to  rob  me  of  the  glory  of  vanquish- 
ing them,  such  is  the  enmity  he  bears  me  ;  but  in  the  end  his 
wicked  arts  will  avail  but  little  against  my  good  sword." 

"God  order  it  as  he  may,"  said  Sancho  Panza,  and  hel]»ing 
him  to  rise  got  him  up  again  on  Rocinante,  whose  shoulder 
was  half  out ;  and  then,  discussing  the  late  adventure,  they 
followed  the  road  to  Puerto  Lapice,  for  there,  said  Don 
Quixote,  they  could  not  fail  to  find  adventures  in  abundance 
and  variety,  as  it  was  a  great  thoroughfare.^  For  all  that,  he 
was  much  grieved  at  the  loss  of  his  lance,  and  saying  so  to 
his  squire,  he  added,  "  I  remember  having  read  how  a  Spanish 
knight,  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas  by  name,  having  broken  his 
sword  in  battle,  tore  from  an  oak  a  ponderous  bough  or  branch, 
and  with  it  did  such  things  that  day,  and  ])ounde(l  so  many 
Moors,  that  he  got  the  surname  of  Machuca,"^  and  he  and  his 
descendants  from  that  day  forth  were  called  Vargas  y  Machuca. 

'  Being  a  stage  on  the  great  high  road  from  Madrid  to  SeviUe. 

^  From  machucar  or  machacar,  "  to  pound."  The  feat  referred  to  by 
Don  Quixote  was  performed  at  the  siege  of  Jerez  under  Alfonso  X.  in 
1264,  and  is  tlie  subject  of  a  spirited  haUad  which  Lockhart  has  treated 
with  even  more  than  his  usual  freedom. 


48  DON    QUIXOTE. 

I  mention  this  because  from  the  first  oak  ^  I  see  I  mean  to 
rend  such  another  branch,  hirge  and  stout  like  that,  with 
which  I  am  determined  and  resolved  to  do  such  deeds  that 
thou  niayest  deem  thyself  very  fortunate  in  being  found 
worthy  to  come  and  see  them,  and  be  an  eye-witness  of  things 
that  will  with  difficulty  be  believed." 

"  Be  that  as  God  will,"  said  Sancho,  "  I  believe  it  all  as  your 
worship  says  it ;  but  straighten  yourself  a  little,  for  you  seem 
all  on  one  side,  maybe  from  the  shaking  of  the  fall." 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  if  I  make  no 
complaint  of  the  pain  it  is  because  knights-errant  are  not  per- 
ndtted  to  complain  of  any  wound,  even  though  their  bowels  be 
coming  out  through  it." 

"  If  so,"  said  Sancho,  "  I  have  nothing  to  say ;  but  God 
knows  I  would  rather  yoiir  Avorship  complained  when  anything 
•ailed  you.  For  my  part,  T  confess  I  must  com})lain  however 
small  the  ache  may  be ;  unless  indeed  this  rule  about  not  com- 
plaining extends  to  the  squires  of  knights-errant  also." 

Don  Quixote  coidd  not  help  laughing  at  his  squire's  simijlic- 
ity,  and  he  assured  him  he  might  complain  whenever  and  how- 
ever he  chose,  just  as  he  liked,  for,  so  far,  he  had  never  read 
of  anything  to  the  contrary  in  the  order  of  knighthood. 

Sancho  bade  him  remember  it  Avas  dinner-time,  to  which  his 
master  answered  that  he  wanted  nothing  himself  just  then,  but 
that  lie  might  eat  when  he  had  a  mind.  With  this  permission 
Sancho  settled  himself  as  comfortably  as  he  could  on  his  beast, 
and  taking  out  of  the  alforjas  what  he  had  stowed  away  in 
them,  he  jogged  along  l^ehind  his  nuister  munching  deliber- 
ately, and  from  time  to  time  taking  a  pull  at  the  bota  with  a 
relish  that  the  thirstiest  tapster  in  Malaga, might  have  envied; 
and  while  he  Avent  on  in  this  Avay,  gulping  doAvn  draught  after 
draught,  he  ncA-er  gave  a  thought  to  any  of  the  promises  his 
master  had  made  him,  nor  did  he  rate  it  as  hardship  but  rather 
as  recreation  going  in  quest  of  adventures,  hoAVCA'er  dangerous 
they  might  be.  Finally  they  passed  the  night  among  some 
trees,  from  one  of  which  Don  Quixote  plucked  a  dry  branch  to 
serve  him  after  a  fashion  as  a  lance,  and  fixed  on  it  the  head 
he  had  removed  from  the  l)roken  one.  All  that  night  Don 
Quixote  lay  aAvake  thinking  of  his  lady  Dulcinea,  in  order  to 

'  In  the  balli^d  it  is  an  olive  tree,  but  the  olive  does  not  flourish  in  La 
Mancha,  so  Don  Quixote  substitutes  oak,  enema,  or  roble,  the  former,  the 
evergreen,  being  rather  the  more  common  in  Spain. 


CHAPTKll     VIII.  49 

coiit'onu  to  what  lie  had  read  in  his  books,  how  uiany  anight  in 
the  forests  and  deserts  knights  vised  to  lie  sleepless  snpjjorted 
by  the  memory  of  their  mistresses.  Not  so  did  Sancho  Panza 
spend  it,  for  having  his  stomach  full  of  something  stronger 
than  chiccory  water  he  made  but  one  sleep  of  it,  and,  if  his 
master  had  not  called  him,  neither  the  rays  of  the  sun  beating 
on  his  face  nor  all  the  cheery  notes  of  the  birds  welcoming  the 
approach  of  day  Avould  have  had  power  to  waken  him.  On 
getting  up  he  tried  the  bota  and  found  it  somewhat  less  full 
than  the  niglit  before,  which  grieved  his  heart  because  they 
did  not  seem  to  be  on  the  way  to  remedy  the  deficiency  read- 
ily. Don  Quixote  did  not  care  to  break  his  fast,  for,  as  has 
been  already  said,  he  confined  himself  to  savory  recollections 
for  nou^rishment. 

They  returned  to  the  road  they  had  set  out  with,  leading  to 
Puerto  Lapice,  and  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  they  came  in 
sight  of  it.  "  Here,  brother  Sancho  Panza,"  said  Don  Quixote 
when  he  saw  it.  "  we  may  plunge  our  hands  up  to  the  elbows 
in  what  they  call  adventures ;  but  observe,  even  shouldst  thou 
see  me  in  the  greatest  danger  in  the  world,  thou  must  not  put 
a  hand  to  thy  sword  in  my  defence,  unless,  indeed,  thou  per- 
ceivest  that  those  who  assail  me  are  rabble  or  base  folk;  for  in 
that  case  thou  mayest  very  projjcrly  aid  me ;  but  if  they  be 
knights  it  is  on  no  account  permitted  or  allowed  thee  by  tlie 
laws  of  knighthood  to  help  me  until  thou  hast  been  dubbed  a 
knight." 

''Most  certainly,  senor,"  replied  8ancho,  "your  worshi]) 
shall  be  fully  obeyed  in  this  matter;  all  the  more  as  of  myself 
I  am  peaceful  and  no  friend  to  mixing  in  strife  and  quarrels  :  it 
is  true  that  as  regards  the  defence  of  my  own  person  I  shall  not 
give  much  heed  to  those  laws,  for  laws  hiiman  and  divine  allow 
each  one  to  defend  himself  against  any  assailant  whatever." 

"■  That  I  grant,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''  l)ut  in  this  matter  of 
aiding  ine  against  knights  thou  must  put  a  restraint  u})()ii  thy 
natural  impetuosity." 

"  I  will  do  so,  I  promise  you,"  answered  Sancho,  "  and  I  will 
kee})  this  precept  as  carefully  as  Sunday." 

While  they  were  thus  talking  there  a})peared  on  the  road 
two  friars  of  the  order  of  St.  Benedict,  mounted  on  two  drome- 
daries, for  not  less  tall  were  the  two  mules  they  rode  on. 
They  wore  travelling  spectacles  and  carried  sunshades ;  and 
behind  them  came  a  coach  attended  by  four  or  five  persons  on 

Vol.  I.  —  4 


50  DON    QUIXOTE. 

liorsebaek  and  two  muleteers  on  foot.  In  the  coach  there  was, 
as  afterwards  appeared,  a  Biscay  lad}^  on  her  way  to  Seville, 
where  her  husband  was  about  to  take  passage  for  the  Indies 
with  an  appointment  of  high  honor.  The  friars,  though  going 
the  same  road,  were  not  in  her  company  ;  but  the  moment  Don 
Quixote  perceived  them  he  said  to  his  squire, ''  Either  I  am  mis- 
taken, or  this  is  going  to  be  the  most  famous  adventure  that 
has  ever  been  seen,  for  those  black  bodies  we  see  there  must 
be,  and  doubtless  are,  magicians  who  are  carrying  off  some 
stolen  princess  in  that  coach,  and  with  all  my  might  I  must 
undo  this  wrong." 

"  This  will  be  worse  than  the  windmills,"  said  Sancho. 
"  Look,  sefior ;  those  are  friars  of  St.  Benedict,  and  the  coach 
plainly  belongs  to  some  travellf'rs  :  ndnd,  I  tell  you  to  mind 
well  what  you  are  about  and  don't  let  the  devil  mislead  you." 

"  I  have  told  thee  already,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote, 
'•  that  on  the  subject  of  adventures  thou  knowest  little.  AVhat 
I  say  is  the  truth,  as  thou  shalt  see  presently." 

So  saying,  he  advanced  and  posted  himself  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  along  which  the  friars  were  coming,  and  as  soon  as  he 
thought  they  had  come  near  enough  to  hear  what  he  said,  he 
cried  aloud,  "  Devilish  and  imnatural  beings,  release  instantly 
the  high-born  princesses  whom  you  are  carrying  off  by  force  in 
this  coach,  else  prepare  to  meet  a  speedy  death  as  the  just 
punishment  of  your  evil  deeds." 

The  friars  drew  rein  and  stood  wondering  at  the  appearance 
of  Don  Quixote  as  well  as  at  his  words,  to  which  they  replied, 
"  Seilor  Caballero,  we  are  not  devilish  or  unnatural,  but  two 
brothers  of  St.  Benedict  following  our  road,  nor  do  we  know 
whether  or  not  there  are  any  captive  princesses  coming  in  this 
coach." 

"No  soft  words  with  me,  for  I  know  you,  lying  rabble," 
said  Don  Quixote,  and  without  waiting  for  a  reply  he  spurred 
Rocinante  and  with  levelled  lance  charged  the  first  friar  with 
such  fury  and  determination  that,  if  the  friar  had  not  flung 
himself  off  the  mule,  he  would  have  brought  him  to  the  ground 
against  his  will,  and  sore  wounded,  if  not  killed  outright. 
The  second  brother,  seeing  how  his  comrade  was  treated,  drove 
his  heels  into  his  castle  of  a  mule  and  made  off  across  the 
country  faster  than  the  Avind. 

Sancho  Panza,  when  he  saw  the  friar  on  the  ground,  dis- 
mounting briskly  from  his  ass,  rushed  towards  him  and  began 


rilAI'TER    vriT  51 

to  strip  off  liis  j^own.  At  tliat  instant  the  friars'  muleteers  came 
up  and  asked  Avliat  he  was  striijping  him  for.  Saneho  answered 
them  that  this  fell  to  him  lawfully  as  spoil  of  the  battle  which 
his  lord  Don  Quixote  had  won.  The  muleteers,  who  had  no 
idea  of  a  joke  and  did  not  luiderstand  all  this  about  battles  and 
spoils,  seeing  that  Don  Quixote  was  some  distance  off  talking 
to  the  travellers  in  the  coach,  fell  ui^on  Sancho,  knocked  him 
down,  and  leaving  hardly  a  hair  in  his  beard,'  belabored  him 
with  kicks  and  left  him  stretched  breathless  and  senseless  on 
the  ground ;  and  without  any  more  delay  helped  the  friar  to 
mount,  who,  trembling,  terrified,  and  pale,  as  soon  as  he  found 
himself  in  the  saddle,  si)urred  after  his  companion,  who  was 
standing  at  a  distance  looking  on,  watching  the  result  of  the 
onslaught;  then,  not  caring  t(  wait  for  the  end  of  the  affair 
just  begun,  they  pursued  their  journey  making  more  crosses 
than  if  they  had  the  devil  after  them. 

Don  Quixote  was,  as  has  been  said,  speaking  to  the  lady  in 
the  coach  :  "  Your  beauty,  lady  mine,"  said  he,  "  may  now  dis- 
pose of  your  person  as  may  be  most  in  accordance  with  your 
pleasure,  for  the  pride  of  your  ravishers  lies  prostrate  on  the 
ground  through  this  strong  arm  of  mine ;  and  lest  you  should 
be  pining  to  know  the  name  of  your  deliverer,  know  that  I  am 
called  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  knight-errant  and  adven- 
turer, and  captive  to  the  peerless  and  beautiful  lady  Dulcinea 
del  Toboso ;  and  in  return  for  the  service  you  have  received  of 
me  I  ask  no  more  than  that  you  should  return  to  El  Toboso, 
and  on  my  behalf  present  yourself  before  that  lady  and  tell  her 
what  I  have  done  to  set  you  free." 

One  of  the  squires  in  attendance  upon  the  coach,  a  Biscayan, 
was  listening  to  all  Don  Quixote  was  saying,  and,  perceiving 
that  he  would  not  allow  the  coach  to  go  on,  but  was  saying  it 
must  return  at  once  to  El  Toboso,  he  made  at  him,  and  seizing 
his  lance  addressed  him  in  bad  Castilian  and  worse  Biscayan  ^ 
after  this  fashion,  "  Begone,  caballero,  and  ill  go  with  thee  ;  i)y 
the  God  that  made  me,  unless  thou  quittest  coach,  slayest  thee 
as  art  here  a  Biscayan." 

Don  Quixote  understood  him  quite  well,  and  answered  liiiu 
very  quietly,  "  If  thou  Avert  a  knight,  as  thou  art  none,  I  should 

'  In  the  humurous  tract  The  Book  of  all  Things^  and  many  more^  Que- 
vedo  mentions  as  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  Biscayan  dialect  that  it 
changes  the  iirst  person  of  the  verb  into  the  second.  This  may  be  ob- 
serveil  in  tlie  specimen  given  liere  :  anotlier  example  of  Biscayan  will  be 
found  in  Cervantes'  interlude  of  the  Viscaino  Fingido. 


52  DON    QUIXOTE. 

have  already  chastised  thy  folly  and  rashness,  miserable  crea- 
ture." To  which  the  Biscayan  returned,  "  I  no  gentleman  !  -^ — 
I  swear  to  God  thou  liest  as  I  am  Christian  :  if  thou  di'oppest 
lance  and  drawest  sword,  soon  shalt  thou  see  thou  art  car- 
rying water  to  the  cat :  ^  Biscayan  on  land,  hidalgo  at  sea, 
hidalgo  at  the  devil,  and  look,  if  thou  sayest  otherwise  thou 
liest." 

Hi  u  You  will  see  presently,"  said  Agrajes,'  "  ^  replied  Don 
Quixote  ;  and  throwing  his  lance  on  the  ground  he  drew  his 
sword,  braced  his  buckler  on  his  arm,  and  attacked  the  Biscayan, 
bent  upon  taking  his  life. 

The  Biscayan,  when  he  saw  him  coming  on,  though  he  wished 
to  dismount  from  his  mule,  in  which,  being  one  of  those  sorry 
ones  let  out  for  hire,  he  had  no  confidence,  had  no  choice  but 
to  draw  his  sword  ;  it  was  lucky  for  him,  however,  that  he  was 
near  the  coach,  from  which  he  was  able  to  snatch  a  cushion 
that  served  him  for  a  shield ;  and  then  they  went  at  one 
another  as  if  they  had  been  two  mortal  enemies.  The  others 
strove  to  make  peace  between  them,  but  could  not,  for  the 
Biscayan  declared  in  his  disjointed  phrase  that  if  they  did  not 
let  him  finish  his  battle  he  would  kill  his  mistress  and  every 
one  that  strove  to  prevent  him.  The  lady  in  the  coach,  amazed 
and  terrified  at  what  she  saw,  ordered  the  coachman  to  draw 
aside  a  little,  and  set  herself  to  watch  this  severe  struggle,  in 
the  course  of  which  the  Biscayan  smote  Don  Quixote  a  mighty 
stroke  on  the  shoulder  over  the  top  of  his  buckler,  which,  given 
to  one  without  armor,  would  have  cleft  him  to  the  waist.  Don 
Quixote,  feeling  the  weight  of  this  prodigious  blow,  cried  aloud, 
saying,  "  0  lady  of  my  soul,  Dulcinea,  flower  of  beauty,  come 
to  the  aid  of  this  your  knight,  who,  in  fidfilling  his  obligations 
to  your  beauty,  finds  himself  in  this  extreme  peril."  To  say 
this,  to  lift  his  sword,  to  shelter  himself  well  behind  his  buckler, 

'  Cahallero  nieans  "  gentleman  "  as  well  as  knight,  and  the  peppery  Bis- 
cayan assumes  that  Don  Quixote  has  used  the  word  in  the  former  sense. 

'■'  Quien  ha  de  llevar  el  gato  al  agua  f  (Prov.  102.)  "  Who  will  carry 
tlie  cat  to  the  water?  "  is  a  proverbial  way  of  indicating  an  apparently  in- 
superable difficulty.  Between  rage  and  ignorance  the  Biscayan,  it  Avill  be 
seen,  inverts  the  phrase. 

^  Agrajes  was  the  cousin  and  companion  of  Amadis  of  Gaul.  The  phrase 
quoted  above  (Prov.  4)  became  a  popular  one,  and  is  introduced  as  such 
among  others  of  the  same  sort  by  Quevedo  in  the  vision  of  the  Visita  de 
los  Chistes.  It  is  hard  to  say  why  it  should  have  been  fixed  on  Agrajes, 
who  does  not  seem  to  use  it  as  often  as  others,  Amadis  himself  for 
instance. 


CHAPTER     VIII.  53 

and  to  assail  the  Biscayan  was  the  work  of  an  instant,  deter- 
mined as  he  was  to  venture  all  upon  a  single  blow.  The  Bis- 
cayan,  seeing  him  come  on  in  this  way,  was  convinced  of  his 
courage  by  his  spirited  bearing,  and  resolved  to  follow  his  ex- 
ample, so  he  waited  for  him  keeping  well  under  cover  of  his 
cushion,  being  unable  to  execute  any  sort  of  mancBuvre  with 
his  mule,  which,  dead  tired  and  never  meant  for  this  kind  of 
game,  could  not  stir  a  step. 

On,  then,  as  aforesaid,  came  Don  Quixote  against  the  wary 
Biscayan,  with  uplifted  sword  and  a  firm  intention  of  splitting 
him  in  half,  while  on  his  side  the  Biscayan  waited  for  him 
sword  in  hand,  and  under  the  protection  of  his  cushion  ;  and 
all  present  stood  trembling,  waiting  in  suspense  the  result  of 
blows  such  as  threatened  to  fall,  and  the  lady  in  the  coach  and 
the  rest  of  her  following  were  making  a  thousand  vows  and 
offerings  to  all  the  images  and  shrines  of  Spain,  that  (iod  might 
deliver  her  squire  and  all  of  them  from  this  great  peril  in  which 
they  found  themselves.  Uut  it  spoils  all,  that  at  this  jmint  and 
crisis  the  author  of  the  history  leaves  this  battle  impending,' 
giving  as  excuse  that  he  could  find  nothing  more  written  abo\it 
these  achievements  of  Don  Quixote  than  what  has  been  already 
set  forth.  It  is  true  the  second  author  of  this  work  was  un- 
willing to  believe  that  a  history  so  curious  could  liave  been 
allowed  to  fall  under  the  sentence  of  oblivion,  or  that  the  wits 
of  La  Mancha  could  have  been  so  undiscerning  as  not  to  pre- 
serve in  their  archives  or  registries  some  documents  referring 
to  this  famous  knight ;  and  this  being  his  persuasion,  he  did 
not  despair  of  finding  the  conclusion  of  this  pleasant  history, 
which.  Heaven  favoring  him,  he  did  find  in  a  way  that  shall  be 
related  in  the  Second  Part.'^ 

'  Tho  abrupt  suspension  of  the  narrative  and  the  reason  assigned  are  in 
imitation  of  devices  of  the  cliivalry-romanee  writers.  Montalvo,  for  in- 
stance, breaks  off  in  the  ninety-eighth  chapter  of  Esplandiaii ,  and  in  the 
next  gives  an  aeeount  of  the  discovery  of  the  sequel,  very  much  as  Cer- 
vantes has  d:)nt'  liere  and  in  the  next  chajiter. 

*  Cervantes  divided  liis  lirst  volume  of  JJon  Quixote  into  four  parts, 
possibly  in  imitation  of  the  four  books  of  the  Amadis  of  Montalvo ;  but 
the  chapters  were  numbered  without  regard  to  this  division,  which  he  also 
ignored  in  1615,  when  he  called  his  new  volume  "Second"  instead  of 
"Fifth  "  Part. 


54  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

IN  WHICH  IS  COXCLUBED  AXD  FINISHED  THE  TEKKIFIO 
BATTLE  BETWEEN  THE  GALLANT  BISCAY  AN  AND  THE 
VALIANT      MANCHEGAN. 

In  the  First  Part  of  this  history  we  left  the  valiant  Bis- 
cayan  and  the  renowned  Don  Quixote  with  draAvn  swords  up- 
lifted, ready  to  deliver  two  such  furious  slashing  blows  that 
if  they  had  fallen  full  and  fair  they  would  at  least  have  split 
and  cleft  them  asunder  from  top  to  toe  and  laid  them  open 
like  a  pomegranate ;  and  at  this  so  critical  point  the  delightful 
history  came  to  a  stop  and  stood  cut  short  without  any  intima- 
tion from  the  author  where  what  was  missing  was  to  be  found. 

This  distressed  me  greatly,  because  the  pleasure  derived 
from  having  read  such  a  small  portion  turned  to  vexation  at 
the  thought  of  the  poor  chance  that  presented  itself  of  find- 
ing the  large  part  that,  so  it  seemed  to  me,  was  missing  of  such 
an  interesting  tale.  It  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  thing  impossible 
and  contrary  to  all  precedent  that  so  good  a  knight  should  have 
been  without  some  sage  to  undertake  the  task  of  writing  his 
marvellous  achievements ;  a  thing  that  was  never  wanting  to 
any  of  those  knights-errant  who,  they  say,  went  after  adven- 
tures ;  for  every  one  of  them  had  one  or  two  sages  as  if  made 
on  purpose,  who  not  only  recorded  their  deeds  but  described 
their  most  trifling  thoughts  and  follies,  however  secret  they 
might  be  ;  and  such  a  good  knight  could  not  have  been  so  un- 
fortunate as  not  to  have  what  Platir  and  others  like  him  had 
in  abundance.  And  so  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  believe  that 
such  a  gallant  tale  had  been  left  maimed  and  mutilated,  and  I 
laid  the  blame  on  Time,  the  devourer  and  destroyer  of  all 
things,   that  had  either  concealed  or  consumed  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  struck  me  that,  inasmuch  as  among  his 
books  there  had  been  found  such  modern  ones  as  "  The  En- 
lightenment of  Jealousy  "  and  "  The  Nymphs  and  Shepherds 
of  Henares,"  his  story  must  likewise  be  modern,  and  that  though 
it  might  not  be  written,  it  might  exist  in  the  memory  of  the 
people  of  his  village  and  of  those  in  the  neighborhood.  This  re- 
flection kept  me  perplexed  and  longing  to  know  really  and  truly 
the  whole  life  and  wondrous  deeds  of  our  famous  Spaniard, 
Don  Quixote  of  La  Mauclia,  light  and  uurror  of  Manchegau 


CHAPTER    IX.  55 

chivalry,  and  the  first  tliat  in  our  age  and  in  these  so  evil 
days  devoted  himself  to  the  labor  and  exercise  of  the  arms  of 
knight-errantry,  righting  wrongs,  succoring  widows,  and  pro- 
tecting damsels  of  that  sort  tluit  used  to  ride  about,  whi])  in 
hand,'  on  their  palfreys,  with  all  their  virginity  about  them, 
from  mountain  to  mountain  and  valley  to  valley  —  for,  if  it 
were  not  for  some  ruffian,  or  boor  Avith  a  hood  and  hatchet,  or 
monstrous  giant,  that  forced  them,  there  were  in  days  of  yore 
damsels  that  at  the  end  of  eighty  years,  in  all  which  time 
they  had  never  slept  a  day  under  a  roof,  Avent  to  their  graves 
as  much  maids  as  the  mothers  that  bore  them.  1  say,  then, 
that  in  these  and  other  res])ects  our  noble  Don  Quixote  is 
worthy  of  everlasting  and  notable  jn-aise,  nor  should  it  be  with- 
held even  from  me  for  the  labor  and  pains  spent  in  searching 
for  the  conchision  of  this  delightful  history ;  thougl"  I  know 
well  that  if  Heaven,  chance,  and  good  fortune  had  not  helped 
me,  the  world  would  have  remained  deprived  of  an  entertain- 
ment and  pleasure  that  for  a  couple  of  hours  or  so  may  well 
occupy  him  who  shall  read  it  attentively.  The  discovery  of  it 
occurred  in  this  way. 

One  day,  as  I  was  in  the  Alcana  -  of  Toledo,  a  boy  came  up  to 
sell  some  pamphlets  and  old  papers  to  a  silk  mercer,  and,  as  I 
am  fond  of  reading  even  the  very  scra})S  of  paper  in  the  streets, 
led  l)y  this  natural  bent  of  mine,  1  took  up  one  of  the  pamph- 
lets the  boy  had  for  sale,  and  saw  that  it  was  in  characters 
which  I  recognized  as  Arabic,  and,  as  I  was  unable  to  read 
them,  though  I  could  recognize  them,  I  looked  about  to  see  if 
there  were  any  Spanish-speaking  Morisco  at  hand  to  read  them 
for  me ;  nor  was  there  any  great  difficulty  in  finding  such  an 
interpreter,  for  even  had  I  sought  one  for  an  older  and  better 
language  ^  I  should  have  found  him.  In  short,  chance  provided 
me  with  one,  Avho  when  I  told  him  what  I  wanted  and  put  the 
book  into  his  hands,  opened  it  in  the  middle,  and  after  reading 
a  little  in  it  began  to  laugh.  I  asked  him  what  he  was  laugh- 
ing at,  and  he  replied  that  it  was  at  something  the  book  had 
written  in  the  margin  by  way  of  a  note.  I  bade  him  tell  it  to 
me ;  and  he,  still  laughing,  said :  "  In  the  margin,  as  I  told 

'Instead  of  azotes  (whips)  Clemencin  suggests  azores  (liawks),  and 
refers  to  eliai>ter  xxx.  Part  II.,  where  a  liawk  in  hand  is  especially  men- 
tioned as  the  usual  aceonipaninient  of  a  nol)le  lady  on  horseback. 

*  Alcana^  a  market-place  in  Toledo  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  cathedral. 

^  i.e.  Hebrew. 


66  DON    QUIXOTE. 

you,  this  is  written :  '  Tltis  Dulcinea  del  Tohoso  so  often  men- 
tioned in  this  histort/  had,  they  satj,  the  best  hand  of  any  woman 
in  all  La  Mancha  for  salting  pigs y 

When  I  heard  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  named,  I  was  struck 
with  surprise  and  amazement,  tor  it  occurred  to  me  at  once 
that  these  pamphlets  contained  the  history  of  Don  Quixote. 
With  this  idea  I  pressed  him  to  read  the  beginning,  and  doing 
so,  turning  the  Arabic  offhand  into  C'astilian,  he  told  me  it 
meant,  '■'History  of  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  a-ritten  by 
Cid  Hamet  Beaengeli^  an  Arab  historian.''  It  required  great 
caution  to  hide  the  joy  I  felt  when  the  title  of  the  book 
reached  my  ears,  and  snatching  it  from  the  silk  mercer,  I 
bought  all  the  papers  and  i)amphlets  from  the  boy  for  half  a 
real ;  and  if  lie  had  liad  his  wits  about  him  and  had  known 
how  eager  I  was  for  them,  he  might  have  safely  calculated  on 
making  more  than  six  reals  by  the  bargain.  I  withdrew  at 
once  with  the  Morisco  into  the  cloister  of  the  cathedral,  and 
begged  him  to  turn  all  these  pamphlets  that  related  to  Don 
Quixote  into  the  (Jastilian  tongue,  without  omitting  or  adding 
anything  to  them,  offering  him  whatever  payment  he  pleased. 
He  was  satished  with  two  arrobas  of  raisins  and  two  bushels 
of  wheat,  and  promised  to  translate  thein  faithfully  and  with 
all  despatch  ;  but  to  nuike  the  matter  more  easy,  and  not  to 
let  such  a  precious  find  out  of  my  hands,  I  took  him  to  my 
house,  where  in  little  more  than  a  month  and  a  half  he  trans- 
lated the  whole  just  as  it  is  set  down  here. 

In  the  first  pamphlet  the  battle  between  Don  Quixote  and 
the  Biscayan  was  drawn  to  the  very  life,  they  planted  in  the 
same  attitude  as  the  history  describes,  their  swords  raised, 
and  the  one  protected  by  his  buckler,  the  other  by  his  cushion, 
and  the  Biscayan's  mi;le  so  true  to  nature  that  it  could  be  seen 
to  be  a  hired  one  a  bowshot  off.  The  Biscayan  had  an  in- 
scrijjtion  under  his  feet  which  said,  "  Don  Saneho  de  Azpeitia/' 
which  no  doubt  must  have  been  his  name ;  and  at  the  feet  of 
Rocinante  was  another  that  said,  "  Don  Quixote.'^  Eocinante 
was  marvellously  portrayed,  so  long  and  thin,  so  lank  and  lean, 
with  so  much  backbone  and  so  far  gone  in  consumption,  that 

'  J.  A.  Conde  suggested  that  Ben  Engeli^ — "  son  of  the  stag"  —  is  the 
Arabic  equivalent  of  the  name  '"Cervantes,"  the  root  of  which  lie  as- 
sumed to  ))e  cierro.  Cervantes  may.,  of  course,  have  intended  what  Conde 
attributes  to  him,  but  the  name  in  reality  has  nothing  to  do  with  ciervo, 
and  comes  from  Servando.     (  T'.  Introduction,  p.  xviii.) 


CHAPTER    IX.  57 

he  showed  plainly  with  what  judgment  and  propriety  the  name 
of  Rocinante  had  been  bestowed  upon  him.  Near  him  was 
Sancho  Panza  holding  the  halter  of  his  ass,  at  whose  feet  was 
another  label  that  said,  "  Sancho  Zancas,"  and  according  to 
the  picture,  he  must  have  had  a  big  belly,  a  short  body,  and 
long  shanks,  for  which  reason,  no  doubt,  the  names  of  Panza 
and  Zancas  were  given  him,  for  by  these  two  surnames  the 
history  several  times  calls  him.^  Some  other  trifling  particu- 
lars might  be  mentioned,  but  they  are  all  of  slight  importance 
and  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  true  relation  of  the  history ; 
and  no  history  can  be  bad  so  long  as  it  is  true. 

If  against  the  present  one  any  objection  be  raised  on  the 
score  of  its  truth,  it  can  only  be  that  its  author  was  an  Arab, 
as  lying  is  a  very  common  propensity  with  those  of  that  na- 
tion ;  though,  as  they  are  such  enemies  of  ours,  it  is  conceiv- 
able that  there  were  omissions  rather  than  additions  made  in 
the  course  of  it.  And  this  is  my  own  opinion ;  for,  where  he 
could  and  should  give  freedom  to  his  pen  in  praise  of  so 
worthy  a  knight,  he  seems  to  me  deliberately  to  pass  it  over 
in  silence ;  which  is  ill  done  and  worse  contrived,  for  it 
is  the  business  and  duty  of  historians  to  be  exact,  truthful, 
and  wholly  free  from  })assion,  and  neither  interest  nor  fear, 
hatred  nor  love,  should  make  them  swerve  froju  the  path  of 
truth,  whose  mother  is  history,-  rival  of  time,  storehouse  of 
deeds,  witness  for  the  past,  example  and  counsel  for  the 
present,  and  warning  for  the  future.  In  this  I  know  will  be 
found  all  that  can  be  desired  in  the  pleasantest,  and  if  it  be 
wanting  in  any  good  quality,  I  maintain  it  is  the  fault  of  its 
hound  of  an  author  and  not  the  fault  of  the  subject.  To  be 
brief,  its  Second  Part,  according  to  the  translation,  Ijegan  in 
this  way  : 

With  trenchant  swords  upraised  and  poised  on  high,  it 
seemed  as  though  the  two  valiant  and  wrathful  combatants 
stood  threatening  heaven,  and  earth,  and  hell,  with  such  resolu- 
tion and  determination  did  they  bear  themselves.  The  liery 
Biscayan  was  the  first  to  strike  a  blow,  which  was  delivered 

'  Panza  =  "  paunch  :  "  Zancas  =  "  shanks  ;  "  but  in  spite  of  what  Cer- 
vantes says,  we  hear  no  more  of  Sanclio's  long  shanks,  for  Avhich  the 
reader  will  he  grateful.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  realize  a  long- 
legged  Sancho. 

-  A  curious  instance  of  the  carelessness  with  which  Cervantes  wrote  and 
corrected,  if,  indeed,  he  corrected  at  all :  of  course  he  meant  the  opposite 
of  what  he  said  — that  truth  was  the  mother  of  history. 


58  DON    QUIXOTE. 

with  such  force  and  fury  that  had  not  the  sword  turned  in  its 
course,  tha,t  single  stroke  woukl  have  sufficed  to  put  an  end  to 
the  bitter  struggle  and  to  all  the  adventures  of  our  knight ; 
but  that  good  fortune  Avhieh  reserved  him  for  greater  things, 
turned  aside  the  sword  of  his  adversary,  so  that,  although  it 
smote  him  upon  the  left  shoulder,  it  did  him  no  more  harm 
than  to  strip  all  that  side  of  its  armor,  carrying  away  a  great 
])art  of  his  helmet  with  half  of  his  ear,  all  which  with  fearful 
ruin  fell  to  the  ground,  leaving  him  in  a  sorry  plight. 

Good  (xod  !  Who  is  there  that  could  properly  describe  the 
rage  that  hlled  the  heart  of  our  Mauchegan  when  he  saw  him- 
self dealt  with  in  this  fashion  ?  All  that  can  be  said  is,  it 
was  such  that  he  again  raised  himself  in  his  stirrups,  and, 
grasping  his  sword  more  firmly  with  both  hands,  he  came 
down  on  the  Biscayan  with  such  fury,  siniting  him  full  over 
the  cushion  and  over  the  head,  that  —  even  so  good  a  shield 
proving  useless  —  as  if  a  mountain  had  fallen  on  him,  he  began 
to  bleed  from  nose,  mouth,  and  ears,  reeling  as  if  about  to  fall 
backwards  from  his  mule,  as  no  doubt  he  would  have  done 
had  he  not  flung  his  arms  about  its  neck ;  at  the  same  time, 
however,  he  slipped  his  feet  out  of  the  stirrups  and  then  \\\\- 
clasped  las  arms,  and  the  mule,  taking  fright  at  the  terrible 
blow,  made  oft"  across  the  plain,  and  with  a  few  plunges  flung 
its  master  to  the  ground.  Don  Quixote  stood  looking  on  very 
calmly,  and,  when  he  saAv  him  fall,  leaped  from  his  horse  and 
with  great  briskness  ran  to  him,  and,  presenting  the  point  of 
liis  sword  to  his  eyes,  bade  him  surrender,  or  he  would  cut  his 
head  off.  The  Biscayan  was  so  bewildered  that  he  was  unable 
to  answer  a  word,  and  it  Avould  have  gone  hard  with  him,  so 
l)lind  Avas  Don  Quixote,  had  not  the  ladies  in  the  coach,  who 
had  hitherto  been  watching  the  combat  in  great  terror, 
hastened  to  where  he  stood  and  implored  him  with  earnest 
entreaties  to  grant  them  the  great  grace  and  favor  of  sparing 
their  squire's  life ;  to  which  Don  Quixote  replied  with  much 
gravity  and  dignity,  "  In  truth,  fair  ladies,  I  am  well  content 
to  do  Avhat  ye  ask  of  me ;  but  it  must  be  on  one  condition  and 
understanding,  which  is  that  this  knight  promise  me  to  go  to 
the  village  of  El  Toboso,  and  on  my  part  present  himself  be- 
fore the  peerless  lady  Dulcinea,  that  she  deal  with  him  as 
shall  be  most  pleasing  to  her." 

The  terrified  and  disconsolate  ladies,  without  discussing 
Don  Quixote's   demand   or   asking   who   Dulcinea  might    be, 


DEFEAT  OF  THE   BISCAYAN.      Vol.  I.      Page  59. 


CHAPTER    X.  59 

promised  that  their  squire  should  do  all  that  had  been  com- 
manded on  his  part. 

"Then,  on  the  faith  of  that  promise,"  said  Pon  Quixote,  "I 
shall  do  him  no  further  harm,  though  he  well  deserves  it  of 
me." 


CHAPTER    X. 


OF    THK    PLEASANT    DISCOURSE    THAT    PASSED    BETWEEN"    DON 
QUIXOTE    AND    HIS    SQUIKE    SANCHO    PANZA. 

Now  by  this  time  Sancho  had  risen,  rather  the  worse  for 
the  handling  of  the  friars'  muleteers,  and  stood  watching  the 
battle  of  his  master,  Don  Quixote,  and  praying  to  God  in  his 
heart  that  it  might  be  his  will  to  grant  him  the  victory,  and 
that  he  might  thereby  win  some  island  to  make  him  governor 
of,  as  he  had  promised.  Seeing,  therefore,  that  the  struggle 
was  now  over,  and  that  his  master  was  returning  to  mount 
Rocinante,  he  approached  to  hold  the  stirrup  for  him,  and,  be- 
fore he  could  mount,  he  went  on  his  knees  before  him,  and 
taking  his  hand,  kissed  it  saying,  "  May  it  please  your  wor- 
ship, Seiior  Don  Quixote,  to  give  me  the  government  of  that 
island  whit'h  has  l)een  won  in  tins  hard  fight,  for  be  it  ever  so 
big  I  feel  myself  in  sufficient  force  to  be  able  to  govern  it  as 
much  and  as  well  as  any  one  in  the  world  who  has  ever  gov- 
erned islands." 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  "  Thou  must  take  notice, 
brother  Sancho,  that  this  adventure  and  those  like  it  are  not 
adventures  of  islands,  but  of  cross-roads,  in  Avhicli  nothing  is 
got  except  a  broken  head  or  an  ear  the  less  :  have  patience,  for 
adventures  will  present  themselves  from  which  I  may  make 
you,  not  only  a  governor,  but  something  more." 

Sancho  gave  him  many  thanks,  and  again  kissing  his  hand 
and  the  skirt  of  his  hauberk,  hel})ed  him  to  mount  Kocinante, 
and  mounting  his  ass  himself,  proceeded  to  follow  his  master, 
who  at  a  brisk  pace,  without  taking  leave,  or  saying  anything 
further  to  the  ladies  belonging  to  the  coach,  turned  into  a 
wood  that  was  hard  by.  Sancho  followed  him  at  his  ass's 
best  trot,  but  Rocinante  stepped  out  so  that,  seeing  himself 
left  behind,  he  was  forced  to  call  to  his  master  to  wait  for  him. 
Don  Quixote   did   so,  reining   in    Rocinante    until    his  weary 


60  DON    QUIXOTE. 

squire  came  up,  who  on  reaching  him  said,  "  It  seems  to  me, 
seiior,  it  woukl  be  i^rudent  in  us  to  go  and  take  refuge  in  some 
church,  for,  seeing  how  mauled  he  with  whom  you  fought  has 
been  left,  it  will  be  no  Avonder  if  they  give  information  of  the 
affair  to  the  Holy  Brotherhood  '  and  arrest  us,  and,  faith,  if 
they  do,  before  we  come  out  of  gaol  we  shall  have  to  sweat 
for  it." 

"  Peace,"  said  Don  Qiiixote  ;  ''  Avhere  hast  thou  ever  seen  or 
heard  that  a  knight-errant  has  been  arraigned  before  a  court 
of  justice,  however  many  hondcides  he  may  have  committed  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  omecils,"  ^  answered  Sancho,  "  nor 
in  my  life  have  had  anything  to  do  with  one  ;  I  only  know 
that  the  Holy  Brotherhood  looks  after  those  who  fight  in  the 
fields,  and  in  that  other  matter  I  do  not  meddle." 

''  Then  thou  needst  have  no  uneasiness,  my  friend,"  said 
Don  .Quixote,  "  for  I  will  deliver  thee  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
Chaldeans^  much  more  out  of  those  of  the  Brotherhood.  But 
tell  me,  as  thou  livest,  hast  thou  seen  a  more  valiant  knight 
than  I  in  all  the  known  world ;  hast  thou  read  in  history  of 
any  who  has  or  had  higher  mettle  in  attack,  more  s})irit  in 
maintaining  it,  more  dexterity  in  wounding  or  skill  in  over- 
throwing ?  " 

"  The  truth  is,"  answered  Sancho,  ''  that  I  have  never  read 
any  history,  for  I  can  neither  read  nor  write,  but  what  I  will 
venture  to  bet  is  that  a  more  daring  master  than  your  worship 
I  have  never  served  in  all  the  days  of  my  life,  and  God  grant 
that  this  daring  be  not  paid  for  where  I  have  said ;  what  I  beg 
of  your  worship  is  to  dress  your  wound,  for  a  great  deal  of 
blood  flows  from  that  ear,  and  I  have  here  some  lint  and  a 
little  white  ointment  in  the  alforjas." 

"  All  that  might  be  well  dispensed  with,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  if  I  had  remembered  to  make  a  vial  of  the  balsam  of  Fiera- 
bras,^  for  time  and  medicine  are  saved  by  one  single  drop." 

"  What  vial  and  what  balsam  is  that? "  said  Sancho  Panza. 

'  The  Santa  Hermandad,  a  tribunal  established  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
but  revived  in  the  reign  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  with  summary  juris- 
diction over  offenders  against  life  and  property  on  the  highways  and  out- 
side of  the  municipal  boundaries. 

*  Omecillo  or  hornecillo  was  an  old  form  of  the  word  homecidio,  but  in 
popular  parlance  it  meant  the  fine  imposed  in  default  of  appearance  to 
answer  a  charge  of  assault  and  battery. 

^Fierabras,  i.e.  Fier  a  Ziras  =  "  Arm-strong,"  a  giant  in  Nicolas  de 
Piamonte's  history  of  Charlemagne  and  the  Peers. 


CHAPTER    X.  61 

"It  is  a  balsam,"  answered  Don  Qnixote,  "  the  receipt  of 
which  I  have  in  my  memory,  with  which  one  need  have  no  fear 
of  death,  or  dread  dying  of  any  wound ;  and  so  when  I  make 
it  and  give  it  to  thee  thou  hast  nothing  to  do  when  in  some 
battle  tliou  seest  they  have  cut  me  in  half  through  the  middle 
of  the  body  —  as  is  wont  to  lia[)pen  frequently  —  but  neatly 
and  with  great  nicety,  ere  the  blood  congeal,  to  place  that  por- 
tion of  the  l)ody  which  shall  have  fallen  to  the  ground  upon 
the  other  half  which  remains  in  the  saddle,  taking  care  to  tit 
it  on  evenly  and  exactly.  Then  thou  «halt  give  me  to  drink 
but  two  drops  of  the  balsam  I  have  mentioned,  and  tlioii  slialt 
see  me  become  sounder  than  an  apple." 

"  If  that  be  so,"  said  I'anza,  "  I  renounce  henceforth  the 
government  of  the  promised  island,  and  desire  nothing  more 
in  payment  of  my  many  and  faithful  services  than  that  your 
worship  give  me  the  recei})t  of  this  supreme  liquor,  for  I  am 
persuaded  it  will  be  worth  more  than  two  reals  an  ounce  any- 
where, and  I  want  no  more  to  pass  the  rest  of  my  life  in  ease 
and  honor;  but  it  remains  to  be  told  if  it  costs  much  to  make 
it." 

"  With  less  than  three  reals  six  quarts  ^  of  it  may  be  made," 
said  Don  Quixote. 

"  Sinner  that  I  am  !  "  said  Sancho,  "  then  why  does  your 
worship  put  off  making  it  and  teaching  it  to  me." 

"  Peace,  friend,"  answered  Don  Quixote  ;  "  greater  secrets  T 
mean  to  teach  thee  and  greater  favors  to  bestow  u})oii  thee  ; 
and  for  the  present  let  us  see  to  the  dressing,  for  my  ear  pains 
me  nu)re  than  I  could  wish." 

Sancho  took  out  some  lint  and  ointment  from  the  alforjas ; 
but  when  Don  Quixote  came  to  see  his  helmet  shattered,  he 
was  like  to  lose  his  senses,  and,  clapping  his  hand  upon  his 
sword  and  raising  his  eyes  to  heaven,  he  said,  "  I  swear  by  the 
Creator  of  all  things  and  the  four  Gospels  in  their  fullest  ex- 
tent, to  do  as  the  great  Marquis  of  Mantua  did  wdien  he  swore 
to  avenge  the  death  of  his  ne]>hew  lialdwin  (and  that  was  not 
to  eat  bread  from  a  table-cloth,  nor  embrace  his  wife,  and  other 
points  which,  though  I  cannot  now  call  them  to  mind,  1  here 
grant  as  expressed),  until  I  take  complete  vengeance  ui)on  him 
who  has  committed  such  an  offence  against  me." 

Hearing  this,  Sancho  said  to  him,  "  Your  worship  should 
bear  in  mind,  Senor  Don  Quixote,  that  if  the  knight  has  done 

'In  tlio  original,  ires  aziimhres. 


62  DON    QUIXOTE. 

wliat  was  commanded  liim  in  going  to  present  himself  before 
my  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  lie  will  have  done  all  that  he 
was  bound  to  do,  and  does  not  deserve  further  punishment 
imless  he  commits  some  new  offence." 

"  Thou  hast  said  well  and  hit  the  point/'  answered  Don  Qui- 
xote ;  "  and  so  I  recall  the  oath  in  so  far  as  relates  to  taking 
fresh  vengeance  on  him,  but  I  make  and  confirm  it  anew  to 
lead  the  life  I  have  said  until  such  time  as  I  take  by  force 
from  some  knight  another  helmet  such  as  this  and  as  good ; 
and  think  not,  Sancho,  that  I  am  raising  smoke  with  straw  in 
doing  so,  for  I  have  one  to  imitate  in  the  matter,  since  the 
very  same  thing  to  a  hair  happened  in  the  case  of  Mambrino's 
helmet,  which  cost  Saeripante  so  dear."  ' 

"  Se.lor,"  replied  Sancho,  "  let  your  worship  send  all  such 
oaths  to  tlie  devil,  for  they  are  very  })ernicious  to  salvation  and 
prejudicial  to  the  conscience;  just  tell  me  now,  if  for  several 
days  to  come  we  fall  in  with  no  man  armed  with  a  helmet, 
what  are  we  to  do  ?  Is  the  oath  to  be  observed  in  spite  of  all 
the  inconvenience  and  discomfort  it  will  be  to  sleep  in  your 
clothes,  and  not  to  sleep  in  a  house,  and  a  thousand  other 
mortifications  contained  in  the  oath  of  that  old  fool,  the  Mar- 
quis of  Mantua,  which  your  worship  is  now  wanting  to  revive  ? 
Let  your  worship  observe  that  there  are  no  men  in  armor  trav- 
elliug  on  any  of  these  roads,  nothing  but  carriers  and  carters, 
-who  not  only  do  not  wear  helmets,  but  perhaps  never  heard 
tell  of  them  all  their  lives." 

"  Thou  art  wrong  there,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''  for  we  shall 
not  have  been  two  hours  among  these  cross-roads  before  Ave 
see  more  men  in  armor  than  came  to  Albraca  to  win  the  fair 
Angelica."  "^ 

"  Enough,"  said  Sancho ;  '•  so  be  it  then,  and  God  grant  us 
success,  and  that  the  time  for  winning  that  island  which  is 
costing  me  so  dear  may  soon  come,  and  then  let  me  die." 

"  I  have  already  told  thee,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  not 
to  give  thyself  any  uneasiness  on  that  score ;  for  if  an  island 
should  fail,  there  is  the  kingdom  of  Denmark,  or  of  Sobradisa, 
which  will  fit  thee  as  a  ring  fits  the  finger,  and  all  the  more 
that  being  on  terra  Jirma  thou  wilt  all  the  better  enjoy  thy- 

'  Manibrino,  a  Moorish  king  in  the  Orlando  of  Boiardo,  whose  en- 
chanted lielmet  was  won  by  llinaldo.  It  w:is  Dardinel,  lioweA-er,  not 
Saeripante,  to  whom  it  cost  so  dear.       (V.  Ariosio,   c.  xviii.,  st.   151.) 

^  Alhraea,  a  stronghold  of  Galafron,  King  of  Cathay  and  father  of 
Angelica.     The  siege  is  one  of  the  incidents  in  the  Orlando  of  Boiardo. 


CHAPTER    X.  63 

self.  T->ut  let  us  leave  that  to  its  own  time  ;  see  if  thou  hast  any- 
thing for  us  to  eat  in  those  alforjas,  because  we  must  presently 
go  in  quest  of  some  castle  where  we  may  lodge  to-night  and 
make  the  balsam  1  told  thee  of,  for  I  swear  to  thee  by  God, 
this  ear  is  giving  me  great  pain." 

"  I  have  here  an  onion  and  a  little  cheese  and  a  few  scraps 
of  bread,"  said  Hancho,  "  but  they  are  not  victuals  fit  for  a 
valiant  knight  like  your  worship." 

"  How  little  thou  knowest  about  it,"  answered  Don  Quixote  ; 
"  I  would  have  thee  to  know,  8ancho,  that  it  is  the  glory  of 
knights-errant  to  go  without  eating  for  a  month,  and  even 
when  they  do  eat,  that  it  should  be  of  what  comes  first  to 
hand;  and  this  would  have  been  clear  to  thee  liadst  thou 
read  as  many  histories  as  I  have,  for,  though  they  are  very 
many,  among  them  all  I  have  found  no  mention  made  of 
knights-errant  eating,  unless  by  accident  or  at  some  sump- 
tuous banquets  prepared  for  them,  and  the  rest  of  the  time 
they  passed  in  dalliance.  And  though  it  is  plain  they  could 
not  do  without  eating  and  performing  all  the  other  natural 
functions,  because,  in  fact,  they  were  men  like  ourselves, 
it  is  plain  too  that,  wandering  as  they  did  the  most  part  of 
their  lives  through  woods  and  wilds  and  without  a  cook,  their 
most  nsual  fare  would  be  rustic  viands  such  as  those  thou  dost 
now  offer  me;  so  that,  friend  .Saucho,  let  not  that  distress  thee 
which  ])leases  me,  and  do  not  seek  to  make  a  new  world  or 
pervert  knight-errantry."  ^ 

"  Pardon  me,  your  worship,"  said  Sancho,  "  for,  as  I  can  not 
read  or  write,  as  I  said  just  now,  I  neither  know  nor  compre- 
hend the  rules  of  the  profession  of  chivalry :  henceforward  I 
will  stock  the  alfoi'jas  with  every  kind  of  dry  fruit  for  your 
worship,  as  you  are  a  knight ;  and  for  myself,  as  I  am  not  one, 
T  will  furnish  them  Avith  i>oultry  and  other  things  more  sub- 
stantial." 

"  I  do  not  say,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  ''that  it  is  im- 
])erative  on  knights-errant  not  to  eat  anything  else  but  the 
fruits  thou  speakest  of;  only  that  their  more  usual  diet  must 
be  those,  and  certain  herbs  they  found  in  the  fields  whic-li 
they  knew  and  I  know  too." 

"  A  good  thing  it  is,"  answered  Sancho,  "  to  know  those 
herbs,  for  to  my  thinking  it  will  be  needful  some  day  to  put 
that  knowledge  into  practice." 

'  Literally,  take  knight-errantry  off  its  hinges. 


64  DON    QUIXOTE. 

And  here  taking  out  what  he  said  he  had  brought,  the  pair 
made  their  repast  peaceably  and  sociably.  But  anxious  to 
find  quarters  for  the  night,  they  with  all  despatch  made  an 
end  of  their  poor  dry  fare,  moimted  at  once,  and  made  haste 
to  reach  some  habitation  before  night  set  in ;  but  daylight  and 
the  hope  of  succeeding  in  their  object  failed  them  close  by  the 
huts  of  some  goatherds,  so  they  determined  to  pass  the  night 
there,  and  it  was  as  much  to  Sancho's  discontent  not  to  have 
reached  a  house,  as  it  was  to  his  master's  satisfaction  to  sleep 
under  the  open  heaven,  for  he  fancied  that  each  time  this  hap- 
pened to  him  he  performed  an  act  of  ownership  that  helped  to 
prove  his  chivalry. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

OF    WHAT    BEFELL  DON    QUIXOTE    WITH    CERTAIN    GOATHERDS. 

He  Avas  cordially  welcomed  by  the  goatherds,  and  Sancho, 
having  as  best  he  coidd  put  up  Kocinante  and  the  ass,  drew 
towards  the  fragrance  that  came  from  some  pieces  of  salted 
goat  simmering  in  a  pot  on  the  fire  ;  and  though  he  would  have 
liked  at  once  to  try  if  they  were  ready  to  be  transferred  from 
the  pot  to  the  stomach,  he  refrained  from  doing  so  as  the  goat- 
herds removed  them  from  the  fire,  and  laying  sheepskins  on 
the  ground,  quickly  spread  their  rude  table,  and  with  signs  of 
hearty  good-will  invited  them  both  to  sliare  what  they  had. 
Round  the  skins  six  of  the  men  belonging  to  the  fold  seated 
themselves,  having  first  with  rough  jjoliteness  pressed  Don 
Quixote  to  take  a  seat  upon  a  trough  which  they  placed  for 
him  upside  down.  Don  Quixote  seated  himself,  and  Sancho 
renuiiued  standing  to  serve  the  cup,  which  was  made  of  horn. 
Seeing  him  standing,  his  master  said  to  him,  "  That  thou 
niayest  see,  Sancho,  the  good  that  knight-errantry  contains  in 
itself,  and  how  those  who  fill  any  ofiice  in  it  are  on  the  high 
road  to  be  speedily  honored  and  esteemed  by  the  world,  I  de- 
sire that  thou  seat  thyself  here  at  my  side  and  in  the  com- 
pany of  these  worthy  people,  and  that  thou  T)e  one  with  me 
who  am  thy  master  and  natural  lord,  and  that  thou  eat  from 
my  plate  and  drink  from  whatever  I  drink  from  ;  for  the  same 
may  be  said  of  knight-errantry  as  of  love,  that  it  levels  all." 

"  Great  thanks,"  said  Sancho,  "  but  I  may  tell  your  worship 


WITH    THE  GOAT   HERDS.      Vol.  I       Page  65. 


CHAPTER    XL  65 

that  provided  I  have  enough  to  eat,  I  can  eat  it  as  well,  or 
better,  standing,  and  by  myself,  than  seated  alongside  of  an 
emperor.  And  indeed,  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told,  what  I  eat  in  my 
corner  without  form  or  fuss  has  much  more  relish  for  me,  even 
though  it  be  bread  and  onions,  than  the  turkeys  of  those  other 
tables  where  I  am  forced  to  chew  slowly,  drink  little,  wipe  my 
mouth  every  minute,  and  can  not  sneeze  or  cough  if  I  want,  or 
do  other  things  that  are  the  privileges  of  liberty  and  solitude. 
So,  sefior,  as  for  these  honors  which  your  worship  would  put 
upon  me  as  a  servant  and  follower  of  knight-errantry  (which  I 
am,  being  your  worship's  squire),  exchange  them  for  other 
things  which  may  be  of  more  use  and  advantage  to  me ;  for 
these,  though  I  fully  acknowledge  them  as  received,  I  renounce 
from  this  moment  to  the  end  of  the  world." 

"  For  all  that,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  thou  must  seat  thyself, 
because  him  who  humbleth  himself  God  exalteth ;  "  and  seiz- 
ing him  by  the  arm  he  forced  him  to  sit  down  beside  himself. 

The  goatherds  did  not  understand  this  jargon  about  squires 
and  knights-errant,  and  all  they  did  was  to  eat  in  silence  and 
stare  at  their  guests,  who,  with  great  elegance  and  appetite, 
were  stowing  away  pieces  as  big  as  one's  list.  The  course  of 
meat  finished,  they  spread  upon  the  sheepskins  a  great  heap 
of  parched  acorns,  and  with  them  they  put  doAvn  a  half  cheese 
harder  than  if  it  had  been  made  of  mortar.  All  this  while  the 
horn  was  not  idle,  for  it  went  round  so  constantly,  now  full, 
now  empty,  like  the  bucket  of  a  water-wlieel,^  that  it  soon 
drained  one  of  the  two  wine-skins  that  were  in  sight.  AVlien 
Don  Quixote  had  quite  appeased  his  appetite,  he  took  iqi  a 
handful  of  the  acorns,  and  contemplating  them  attentively  de- 
livered himself  somewhat  in  this  fashion  :  '^ 

"  Happy  the  age,  happy  the  time,  to  which  the  ancients  gave 
the  name  of  golden,  not  because  in  that  fortu.nate  age  the  gold 
so  coveted  in  this  our  iron  one  was  gained  without  toil,  but 
because  they  that  lived  in  it  knew  not  the  two  words  '  inine ' 
and  '  tliine '  !  In  that  blessed  age  all  things  were  in  common  ; 
to  win  the  daily  food,  no  labor  was  required  of  any  save  to 

'"  Water-wheel"  —  noria  —  a  machine  used  for  irrigation  in  Spain,  by 
whieh  the  water  is  raised  in  pots  or  bucliets  attached  to  the  circumference 
of  a  large  wheel. 

^  The  eulogy  of  the  golden  age  is  one  of  the  loci  classici  of  Don  Quixote 
quoted  in  every  Spanish  anthology;  the  reader,  however,  must  not  judge 
of  it  by  translation,  which  can  not  give  the  stately  roll  and  flow  of  the 
original  Castilian. 
Vol.  I.  — 5 


66  .     Dox  QrrxoTE. 

stretch  forth  his  hand  and  gather  it  from  the  sturdy  oaks  that 
stood  generously  inviting  him  Avith  their  sweet  ripe  fruit.  The 
clear  streams  and  running  lirooks  yielded  their  savory^  limpid 
waters  in  noble  abundance.  The  busy  and  sagacious  bees  fixed 
their  republic  in  the  clefts  of  the  rocks  and  hollows  of  the 
trees,  offering  without  usance  the  plenteous  produce  of  their 
fragrant  toil  to  every  hand.  The  mighty  cork  trees,  unen- 
forced save  of  their  own  courtesy,  shed  the  broad  light  bark 
that  served  at  first  to  roof  the  houses  supported  by  rude  stakes, 
a  protection  against  the  inclemency  of  heaven  alone.  Then  all 
was  peace,  all  friendship,  all  concord ;  as  yet  the  dull  share  of 
the  crooked  plough  had  not  dared  to  rend  and  pierce  the  tender 
bowels  of  our  first  mother  that  without  compulsion  yielded 
from  every  portion  of  her  broad  fertile  bosom  all  that  could 
satisfy,  sustain,  and  delight  the  children  that  then  possessed 
her.  Then  Avas  it  that  the  innocent  and  fair  young  shepherd- 
esses roamed  from  vale  to  vale  and  hill  to  hill,  with  flowing 
locks,  and  no  more  garments  than  were  needful  modestly  to 
cover  what  modestv  seeks  and  ever  soua^ht  to  hide.  Nor  were 
their  ornaments  like  those  in  use  to-day,  set  off  by  Tyrian 
purple,  and  silk  tortured  in  endless  fashions,  but  the  wreathed 
leaves  of  the  green  dock  and  ivy,  wherewith  they  went  as 
bravely  and  becomingly  decked  as  our  Court  dames  Avith  all  the 
rare  and  far-fetched  artifices  that  idle  curiosity  has  taught 
them.  Then  the  love-thoughts  of  the  heart  clothed  themselves 
simply  and  naturally  ^  as  the  heart  conceived  them,  nor  sought 
to  commend  themselves  by  forced  and  rambling  verbiage. 
Fraud,  deceit,  or  malice  had  then  not  yet  mingled  Avith  truth 
and  sincerity.  Justice  held  her  ground,  undisturbed  and  un- 
assailed  by  the  efforts  of  favor  and  of  interest,  that  now  so 
much  impair,  pervert,  and  beset  her.  Arbitrary  laAV  had  not 
yet  established  itself  in  the  mind  of  the  judge,  for  then  there 
Avas  no  cause  to  judge,  and  no  one  to  be  judged.  jVIaidens  and 
modesty,  as  I  haA^e  said,  Awandered  at  Avill  alone  and  unattended, 
without  fear  of  insult  from  laAvlessness  or  libertine  assault,  and 

'  Water  is  almost  worshipped  in  thirsty  Spain,  and  many  a  complimen- 
tary epithet  bestowed  upon  it  that  sounds  odd  under  moister  skies  :  agua 
muif  rica  —  "  A'ery  rich  water" — is  a  eomnion  eneomium  from  a  Spaniard 
after  a  hearty  pull  at  the  alcarrazn. 

'"'  Clemenein  and  Hartzenbusch,  why  I  know  not,  object  to  se  decoraban^ 
the  reading  of  the  original  editions,  and  the  latter  substitutes  se  declarahan. 
I  venture  to  think  the  original  reading  admits  of  the  interpretation  I  have 
given. 


CHAPTER    XL  67 

if  they  were  undone  it  was  of  their  own  will  and  pleasure. 
But  now,  in  this  hateful  age  of  ours,  not  one  is  safe,  not 
though  some  new  labyrinth  like  that  of  Crete  conceal  and  sur- 
round her ;  even  there  the  pestilence  of  gallantry  will  make  its 
way  to  them  through  chinks  or  on  the  air  by  the  zeal  of  its 
accursed  importunity,  and,  despite  of  all  seclusion,  lead  them 
to  ruin.  In  defence  of  these,  as  time  advanced  and  wickedness 
increased,  the  order  of  knights-errant  was  instituted,  to  defend 
maidens,  to  protect  widows,  and  to  succor  the  orphans  and  the 
needy.  To  this  order  I  belong,  brother  goatherds,  to  whom  I 
return  thanks  for  the  hospitality  and  kindly  welcome  ye  offer 
me  and  my  squire ;  for  though  by  natural  law  all  living  are 
bound  to  show  favor  to  knights-errant,  yet,  seeing  that  without 
knowing  this  obligation  ye  have  welcomed  and  feasted  me,  it 
is  right  that  with  all  the  good-Avill  in  my  power  I  should  thaidc 
you  for  yours." 

All  this  long  harangue  (which  might  very  well  have  been 
spared)  our  knight  delivered  because  the  acorns  they  gave  him 
reminded  him  of  the  golden  age  ;  and  the  whim  seized  him  to 
address  all  this  unnecessary  argument  to  the  goatherds,  who 
listened  to  him  gaping  in  amazement  without  saying  a  word  in 
reply.  Sancho  likewise  held  his  peace  and  ate  acorns,  and 
paid  repeated  visits  to  the  second  wine-skin,  which  they  had 
hung  up  on  a  cork  tree  to  keep  the  wine  cool. 

Don  Quixote  was  longer  in  talking  than  in  finishing  his  sup- 
per, at  the -end  of  which  one  of  the  goatherds  said,  '^That  your 
worship,  senor  knight-errant,  may  say  with  more  truth  that  we 
show  you  hospitality  with  ready  good-will,  we  will  give  you 
amusement  and  pleasure  by  making  one  of  our  comrades  sing : 
he  will  be  here  before  long,  and  he  is  a  very  intelligent  youth 
and  deep  in  love,  and  what  is  more  he  can  read  and  write  and 
play  on  the  rebeck  ^  to  perfection." 

The  goatherd  had  hardly  done  speaking,  when  the  notes  of 
the  rebeck  reached  their  ears  ;  and  shortly  after,  the  player 
came  up,  a  very  good-looking  yoiuig  man  of  about  two-and- 
twenty.  His  comrades  asked  him  if  he  had  supped,  and  on 
his  replying  that  he  had,  he  who  had  already  made  the  offer 
said  to  him,  "  In  that  case,  Antonio,  thou  mayest  as  well  do  us 
the  pleasure  of  singing  a  little,  that  the  gentleman,  our  guest 
here,  may  see  that  even  in  the  mountains  and  woods  there  are 
musicians  :  we  have  told  him  of  thy  accomplishments,  and  we 

'  In  the  Spanish,  rabel^  a  small  three-stringed  lute  of  Moorish  origin. 


68  DON    QUIXOTE. 

want  thee  to  show  them  and  prove  that  we  say  true;  so,  as 
thou  livest,  pray  sit  down  and  sing  that  ballad  about  thy  love 
that  thy  uncle  the  prebendary  made  thee,  and  that  was  so 
much  liked  in  the  town." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  young  man,  and  without 
waiting  for  any  more  pressing  he  seated  himself  on  the  trunk 
of  a  felled  oak,  and  tuning  his  rebeck,  presently  began  with 
right  good  grace  to  sing  to  these  words. 

ANTONIO'S   BALLAD.' 

Thou  dost  love  me  well,  Olalla ; 

Well  I  know  it,  even  though 
Love's  mute  tongues,  thine  eyes,  have  never 

By  their  glances  told  me  so. 

For  I  know  my  love  thou  knowest, 

Therefore  thine  to  claim  I  dare : 
Once  it  ceases  to  be  secret. 

Love  need  never  feel  despair. 

True  it  is,  Olalla,  sometimes 

Thou  hast  all  too  plainly  shown 
That  thy  heart  is  brass  in  hardness, 

And  thy  snowy  bosom  stone. 

'  Antonio's  ballad  is  in  imitation  of  a  species  of  popnlar  poetry  that 
occupies  nearly  as  large  a  space  as  the  romantic  and  historical  ballads  in 
the  old  romanceros.  These  gay,  naive,  simple  lays  of  peasant  life  and 
love  are  as  thoroughly  national  and  peculiar  to  Spain  as  the  historical 
ballads  tliemselves,  and  in  every  way  present  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
artificial  pastoral  sonnets  and  canciones  of  Italian  importation.  The  im- 
itation of  this  kind  of  poetry  was  a  favorite  pastime  with  the  poets  of  the 
Spanish  Augustan  age,  and  strange  to  say  the  poet  who  showed  the  light- 
est touch  and  brightest  fancy  in  these  compositions,  and  caught  most  hap- 
pily the  simplicity  and  freshness  of  the  originals,  was  Gongora,  whose 
name  is  generally  associated  with  poetry  the  exact  opposite  of  this  in 
every  particular.  Cervantes  apparently  valued  himself  more  upon  his 
sonnets  and  artificial  verses ;  a  prcfer(?nce  regretted,  I  imagine,  by  most 
of  his  readers.  This  ballad  has  been  hardly  treated  by  the  translators. 
The  language  and  measures  used  by  Shelton  and  Jervas  are  about  as  well 
adapted  to  represent  a  Spanish  popular  lyric  as  a  dray-horse  to  draw  a  pony- 
chaise.  The  measure  of  the  original  is  the  ordinary  ballad  measure,  an 
eight-syllable  trochaic,  with  the  assonant  rhyme  in  the  second  and  fourth 
lines.  The  latter  peculiarity  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  imitate  here,  but 
examples  of  it  will  be  found  farther  on. 


CHAPTER    XI.  69 


Yet  for  all  that,  in  thy  coyness, 
And  thy  fickle  tits  between, 

Hope  is  there — at  least  the  border 
Of  her  garment  may  be  seen. 

Lnres  to  faith  are  they,  those  glimpses, 
And  to  faith  in  thee  I  hold  ; 

Kindness  can  not  make  it  stronger, 
Coldness  can  not  make  it  cold. 

If  it  be  that  love  is  gentle. 

In  thy  gentleness  I  see 
Something  holding  out  assurance 

To  the  hope  of  winning  thee. 

If  it  be  that  in  devotion 

Lies  a  power  hearts  to  move. 

That  which  every  day  I  show  thee, 
Helpful  to  my  suit  should  }irove. 

Many  a  time  thou  must  have  noticed  — ■ 
If  to  notice  thou  dost  care  — 

How  I  go  about  on  Monday 

Dressed  in  all  my  Sunday  wear. 

Love's  eyes  love  to  look  on  brightness ; 

Love  loves  what  is  gayly  drest ; 
Sunday,  Monday,  all  I  care  is 

Thou  shouldst  see  me  in  my  best. 

No  account  I  make  of  dances. 

Or  of  strains  that  pleased  thee  so, 

Kee})ing  thee  av^^ake  from  midnight 
Till  the  cocks  began  to  crow ; 

Or  of  how  I  roundly  swore  it 

That  there  's  none  so  fair  as  thou ; 

True  it  is,  but  as  I  said  it. 
By  the  girls  I  'm  hated  now. 

For  Teresa  of  the  hillside 

At  my  praise  of  thee  was  sore ; 


DON    QUIXOTE. 

Said,  "  You  think  you  love  an  angel  ; 
It 's  a  monkey  you  adore  ; 

'•  Caught  by  all  her  glittering  trinkets, 
And  her  borrowed  braids  of  hair. 

And  a  host  of  made-up  beauties 
That  would  Love  himself  ensnare." 


'T  Avas  a  lie,  and  so  I  told  her, 

And  her  cousin  at  the  word 
Gave  me  his  defiance  for  it ; 

And  what  followed  thou  hast  heard. 

Mine  is  no  high-flown  affection, 

Mine  no  passion  y/«r  auionrs  — 
As  they  call  it  —  what  I  offer 

Is  an  honest  love,  and  pure. 

Cunning  cords  ^  the  holy  Church  has, 

Cords  of  softest  silk  they  be ; 
Put  thy  neck  beneath  the  yoke,  dear ; 

Mine  Avilt  follow,  thou  Avilt  see. 

Else  —  and  once  for  all  I  swear  it 

By  the  saint  of  most  renown  — 
If  I  ever  (^uit  the  mountains, 

'T  will  be  in  a  friar's  gown. 

Here  the  goatherd  brought  his  song  to  an  end,  and  thougli 
r>on  Quixote  entreated  hini  to  sing  more,  Sancho  had  no  mind 
that  way,  being  more  inclined  for  sleep  than  for  listening  to 
songs ;  so  said  he  to  his  master,  "  Your  worship  Avill  do  well 
to  settle  at  once  where  you  mean  to  pass  the  night,  for  the 
labor  these  good  men  are  at  all  day  does  not  allow  them  to 
spend  the  night  in  singing." 

''I  understand  thee,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote;  ''I  per- 
ceive clearly  that  those  visits  to  the  wine-skin  demand  com- 
pensation in  sleep  rather  than  in  music." 

"  It 's  sweet  to  us  all,  blessed  be  God,"  said  Sancho. 

"  I  do  not  deny  it,"  replied  Don  Quixote ;   "  but  settle  thy- 

'  Coyundas,  the  cords  or  thongs  by  which  the  horns  of  the  draught  oxeu 
are  bound  to  the  yoke. 


CHAPTER    XH.  71 

self  where  thoii  wilt ;  those  of  luy  calling  are  more  becomingly 
employed  in  watching  than  in  sleeping ;  still  it  would  be  as 
well  if  thou  wert  to  dress  this  ear  for  me  again,  for  it  is 
giving  me  more  i)ain  than   it  need." 

Sancho  did  as  he  bade  him,  but  one  of  the  goatherds  seeing 
the  wound  told  him  not  to  be  luieasy,  as  he  would  apply  a 
remedy  Avith  which  it  woxild  be  soon  healed;  and  gathering 
some  leaves  of  rosemary,  of  which  there  was  a  great  quantity 
there,  he  chewed  them  and  mixed  them  with  a  little  salt,  and 
applying  them  to  the  ear  he  secured  them  firmly  with  a  band- 
age, assuring  him  that  no  other  treatment  would  be  required, 
and  so  it  ])roved. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

OF    WHAT    A    GOATHERD    RELATED    TO    THOSE    WITH    DON- 
QUIXOTE. 

Just  then  another  young  man,  one  of  those  who  fetched  their 
provisions  from  the  village,  came  iip  and  said,  "  Do  you  know 
what  is  going  on  in  the  village,  comrades  ?  " 

•"  How  could  we  know  it  ?  "  replied  one  of  them. 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  know,"  continued  the  young  man, 
''this  morning  that  famous  student-shepherd  called  Chrysos- 
tom  died,  and  it  is  rumored  that  he  died  of  love  for  that  devil 
of  a  village  girl  the  daughter  of  Guillernu)  the  Eich,  she  that 
wanders  about  the  wolds  here  in  the  dress  of  a  shepherdess." 

"  You  inean  Marcela  ?  "  said  one. 

"  Her  I  mean,"  answered  the  goatherd ;  "  and  the  best  of  it 
is,  he  has  directed  in  his  will  that  he  is  to  be  buried  in  the  fields 
like  a  Moor,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  rock  where  the  Cork-tree 
spring  is,  because,  as  the  story  goes  (and  they  say  he  himself 
said  so),  that  was  the  place  where  he  first  saw  her.  And  he 
lias  also  left  other  directions  which  the  clergy  of  the  village 
say  should  not  and  must  not  be  obeyed  because  they  savor  of 
paganism.  To  all  which  his  great  friend  Ambrosio  the  student, 
he  who,  like  him,  also  went  dressed  as  a  shepherd,  replies  that 
everything  must  be  done  without  any  omission  according  to  the 
directions  left  Ijy  Chrysostom,  and  about  this  the  village  is  all 
in  commotion  ;  however,  report  says  tliat,  after  all,  what  Am- 
brosio and  all  the  shepherds  his  friends  desire  Avill  be  done,  and 


72  DON    QUIXOTE. 

to-morrow  they  are  coming  to  bury  liim  with  great  ceremony 
where  I  said.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  something  worth  seeing ;  at 
least  I  Avill  not  fail  to  go  and  see  it  even  if  I  knew  I  should  not 
return  to  the  village  to-morrow." 

■'  We  will  do  the  same,"  answered  the  goatherds,  "  and  cast 
lots  to  see  who  must  stay  to  mind  the  goats  of  all." 

"  Thou  sayest  well,  Pedro,"  said  one,  ''  though  there  will  be 
no  need  of  taking  that  trouble,  for  I  will  stay  behind  for  all ; 
and  don't  suppose  it  is  virtue  or  want  of  curiosity  in  me ;  it  is 
that  the  splinter  that  ran  into  my  foot  the  other  day  will  not 
let  me  walk." 

"  For  all  that,  we  thank  thee,"  answered  Pedro. 

Don  Quixote  asked  Pedro  to  tell  him  who  the  dead  man  was 
and  who  the  shepherdess,  to  which  Pedro  replied  that  all  he 
knew  was  that  the  dead  man  was  a  Avealthy  gentleman  belong- 
ing to  a  village  in  those  moiuitains,  who  had  been  a  student  at 
Salamanca  for  many  years,  at  the  end  of  which  he  returned  to 
his  village  with  the  reputation  of  being  very  learned  and  deeply 
read.  Above  all,  they  said,  he  was  learned  in  the  science  of  the 
stars  and  of  what  went  on  yonder  in  the  heavens  and  the  sun 
and  the  moon,  for  he  told  us  of  the  cris  of  the  sun  and  moon 
to  the  exact  time. 

"  Eclipse  it  is  called,  friend,  not  cris,  the  darkening  of  those 
two  luminaries,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  but  Pedro,  not  troubling 
himself  with  trifles,  went  on  with  his  story,  saying,  "  Also  he 
foretold  when  the  year  was  going  to  be  one  of  abundance  or 
estility." 

''  Sterility,  you  mean,  friend,"  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  Sterility  or  estility,"  answered  Pedro,  "  it  is  all  the  same 
in  the  end.  And  I  can  tell  you  that  by  this  his  father  and 
friends  who  believed  him  grew  very  rich  because  they  did  as  he 
advised  them,  bidding  them  '  sow  barley  this  year,  not  wheat ; 
this  year  you  may  sow  pulse  ^  and  not  barle}^ ;  the  next  there 
will  be  a  full  oil  crop,  and  the  three  following  not  a  drop  will 
be  got.'  " 

"  That  science  is  called  astrology,"  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  called,"  replied  Pedro,  "  but  I 
know  that  he  knew  all  this  and  more  besides.  But,  to  make 
an  end,  not  many  months  had  passed  after  he  returned  from 
Salamanca,  when  one  day  he  appeared  dressed  as  a  shepherd 

'"Pulsie"  —  yarbanzos,  or  chick-peas,  one  of  the  invariable  constitu- 
ent's of  the  o//((  OT  piichero,  and  therefore  an  important  crop  in  Spain. 


CHAPTER    XI I.  73 

with  his  crook  and  sheepskin,  having  put  off  the  long  gown 
he  wore  as  a  scholar  ;  and  at  the  same  time  his  great  friend, 
Ambrosio  by  name,  who  had  been  his  companion  in  his  studies, 
took  to  the  shepherd's  dress  with  him.  I  forgot  to  say  that 
Chrysostom  who  is  dead  was  a  great  man  for  writing  verses, 
so  much  so  that  he  made  carols  for  Christmas  Eve,  and  plays  ^ 
for  Corpus  Christl  which  the  young  men  of  our  village  acted, 
and  all  said  they  were  excellent.  AVhen  the  villagers  saw  the 
two  scholars  so  unexpectedly  appearing  in  shepherd's  dress 
they  were  lost  in  wonder,  and  could  not  guess  what  had  led 
them  to  make  so  extraordinary  a  change.  About  this  time  the 
father  of  our  Chrysostom  died,  and  he  was  left  heir  to  a  large 
amount  of  property  in  chattels  as  well  as  in  land,  no  small 
number  of  cattle  and  sheep,  and  a  large  sum  of  money,  of  all 
of  which  the  young  man  was  left  dissolute  owner,  and  indeed 
he  was  deserving  of  it  all,  for  he  was  a  very  good  comrade, 
and  kind-hearted,  and  a  friend  of  worthy  folk,  and  had  a 
countenance  like  a  benediction.  Presently  it  came  to  be 
known  that  he  had  changed  his  dress  with  no  other  object 
than  to  wander  about  these  wastes  after  that  shepherdess 
Marcela  our  lad  mentioned  a  while  ago,  with  whom  the  de- 
ceased Chrysostom  had  fallen  in  love.  And  I  must  tell  you 
now,  for  it  is  well  you  should  know  it,  who  this  girl  is  ;  per- 
haps, and  even  without  any  perhaps,  you  will  not  have  heard 
anything  like  it  all  the  days  of  your  life,  though  you  should 
live  more  years  than  sarna."  - 

"  Say  Sara,"  said  Don  Quixote,  unable  to  endure  the  goat- 
herd's confusion  of  words. 

"  The  sarna  lives  long  enough,"  answered  Pedro ;  "  and  if, 
senor,  you  must  go  finding  fault  with  words  at  every  step,  we 
shall  not  make  an  end  of  it  this  twelvemonth." 

"  Pardon  me,  friend,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  ''  but,  as  there  is 
such  a  difference  between  sarna  and  Sara,  I  told  you  of  it ; 
however,  you  have  answered  very  rightly,  for  sarna  lives  longer 
than  Sara:  so  continue  your  story,  and  I  will  not  object  any 
more  to  anything." 

^"  Plays  "  —  autos^  religious  allegorical  dramas. 

^  Mas  viejo  que  sarna  —  (Prov.  250)  "  older  than  itch  "  —  is  a  very  old 
popular  phrase.  Don  Quixote,  either  not  knowing  it  or  else  not  recogniz- 
ing it  in  the  form  in  which  Pedro  puts  it,  supposes  him  to  mean  Sarah  the 
wife  of  Abraham.  Though  Cervantes  tries  to  observe  dramatic  propriety 
by  making  Pedro  Idunder,  in  tlie  end  he  puts  into  his  mouth  language  as 
fine  and  words  as  long  as  Don  Quixote's. 


74  DON    QUIXOTE. 

''  I  say  tlien,  my  dear  sir,"  said  the  goatherd,  "  that  in  our 
village  there  was  a  farmer  even  richer  than  the  father  of 
Chrysostom,  who  was  named  Guillermo,  and  upon  whom  God 
bestowed,  over  and  above  great  wealth,  a  daughter  at  Avhose 
birth  her  mother  died,  the  most  respected  woman  there  was  in 
this  neighborhood  ;  I  fancy  I  can  see  her  now  with  that  coun- 
tenance which  had  the  sun  on  one  side  and  the  moon  on  the 
other ;  and  moreover  active,  and  kind  to  the  poor,  for  which  I 
trust  that  at  the  jjresent  moment  her  soul  is  in  bliss  with  God 
in  the  other  world.  Her  husband  Guillermo  died  of  grief  at 
the  death  of  so  good  a  wife,  leaving  his  daughter  Marcela,  a 
child  and  rich,  to  the  care  of  an  uncle  of  hers,  a  priest  and 
prebendary  in  our  village.  The  girl  grew  up  with  such  beauty 
that  it  reminded  us  of  her  mother's,  which  was  very  great, 
and  yet  it  was  thought  that  the  daughter's  would  exceed  it ; 
and  so  when  she  reached  the  age  of  fourteen  to  fifteen  years 
nobody  beheld  her  without  blessing  God  that  had  made  her  so 
beautiful,  and  the  greater  number  were  in  love  with  her  beyond 
redemption.  Her  uncle  kept  her  in  great  sechision  and  retire- 
ment, but  for  all  that  the  fame  of  her  great  beauty  spread  so 
that,  as  well  for  it  as  for  her  great  wealth,  her  uncle  was  asked, 
solicited,  and  importuned,  to  give  her  in  marriage  by  those  not 
only  of  our  town  but  of  towns  many  leagues  round,  and  by 
the  persons  of  highest  quality  in  them.  But  he,  being  a  good 
Christian  man,  though  he  desired  to  give  her  in  marriage  at 
once,  seeing  her  to  be  old  enough,  was  unwilling  to  do  so 
Avithout  her  consent,  not  that  he  had  any  eye  to  the  gain  and 
profit  which  the  custody  of  the  girl's  property  brought  him 
while  he  put  off  her  marriage ;  and,  faith,  this  was  said  in 
praise  of  the  good  priest  in  more  than  one  set  in  the  town. 
For  I  would  have  you  know.  Sir  Errant,  that  in  these  little 
villages  everything  is  talked  about  and  everything  is  carped 
at ;  and  rest  assured,  as  I  am,  that  the  priest  must  be  over  and 
above  good  who  forces  his  parishioners  to  speak  well  of  him, 
especially  in  villages." 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  '^  but  go  on,  for  the 
story  is  very  good,  and  you,  good  Pedro,  tell  it  with  very  good 


a-race." 


& 


li 


"  May  that  of  the  Lord  not  be  wanting  to  me,"  said  Pedro  ; 
that  is  the  one  to  have.  To  proceed :  you  must  know  that 
though  the  uncle  put  before  his  niece  and  described  to  her  the 
(pialities  of  each  one  in  particular  of  the  many  who  had  asked 


CHAPTER    XI L  75 

her  in  marriage,  begging  her  to  marry  and  make  a  choice  ac- 
cording to  her  own  taste,  she  never  gave  any  other  answer 
than  that  she  had  no  desire  to  marry  jnst  yet,  and  that  being 
so  young  she  did  not  tliink  herself  fit  to  bear  the  burden  of 
matrimony.  At  these,  to  all  appearance,  reasonable  excuses 
that  she  niade,  her  uncle  ceased  to  urge  her,  and  waited  till 
she  was  somewhat  more  advanced  in  age  and  could  mate  her- 
self to  her  own  liking.  For,  said  he  —  and  he  said  rpiite  right 
—  parents  are  not  to  settle  children  in  life  against  their  will. 
r>ut  when  one  least  looked  for  it,  lo  and  behold!  one  day  the 
demure  Marcela  makes  her  appearance  turned  she})herdess ; 
and,  in  spite  of  her  uncle  and  all  those  of  the  tOAvn  that 
strove  to  dissuade  her,  took  to  going  a-field  with  the  other 
shepherd-lasses  of  the  village,  and  tending  her  own  flock. 
And  so,  since  she  api)eared  in  })ublic,  and  her  beauty  came  to 
be  seen  openly,  I  could  not  well  tell  you  how  many  rich 
youths,  gentlemen  and  peasants,  have  adopted  the  costume  of 
Chrysostom,  and  go  about  these  fields  making  love  to  her. 
One  of  these,  as  has  been  already  said,  was  our  deceased 
friend,  of  whom  they  say  that  he  did  not  love  but  adore  her. 
But  you  must  not  suppose,  because  Marcela  chose  a  life  of  such 
liberty  and  independence,  and  of  so  little  or  rather  no  retire- 
ment, that  she  has  given  any  occasion,  or  even  the  semblance 
of  one,  for  disparagement  of  her  purity  and  modesty  ;  on  the 
contrary,  such  and  so  great  is  the  vigilance  with  Avhich  she 
watches  over  her  honor,  that  of  all  those  that  coiirt  and  woo 
her  not  one  has  boasted,  or  can  with  truth  boast,  that  she  has 
given  him  any  hope  however  snmll  of  obtaining  his  desire. 
For  although  she  does  not  avoid  or  shun  the  society  and  con- 
versation of  the  shepherds,  and  treats  them  courteously  and 
kindly,  should  any  one  of  themcome  to  declare  his  intention 
to  her,  though  it  be  one  as  proper  and  holy  as  that  of  matri- 
mony, she  flings  him  from  her  like  a  catapult.  And  Avith  this 
kind  of  disposition  she  does  more  harm  in  this  country  than 
if  the  plague  had  got  into  it,  for  her  affability  and  her  beauty 
draw  on  the  hearts  of  those  that  associate  with  her  to  love 
her  and  to  court  her,  but  her  scorn  and  her  frankness  ^  bring 
them  to  the  brink  of  despair ;  and  so  they  know  not  what  to 
say  save  to  proclaim  her  aloud  cruel  and  hard-hearted,  and 
other  names  of  the  same  sort  which  well  describe  the  nature 

'  "  Frankness  "  — -  desengano  —  more  jiroperly  "  undeceiving,"  but  there 
is  no  eqiiivali'nt  word  in  English. 


76  DON    QUIXOTE. 

of  Ler  character ;  and  if  yoii  should  remain  here  any  time, 
senor,  you  wouhl  hear  these  hills  and  valleys  resounding  with 
the  laments  of  the  rejected  ones  who  pursue  her.  Not  far 
from  this  there  is  a  spot  where  there  are  a  couple  of  dozen  of 
tall  beeches,  and  there  is  not  one  of  them  but  has  carved  and 
written  on  its  smooth  bark  the  name  of  Marcela,  and  above 
some  a  crown  carved  on  the  same  tree  as  though  her  lover 
would  say  more  plainly  that  Marcela  wore  and  deserved  that 
of  all  human  beauty.  Here  one  shepherd  is  sighing,  there 
another  is  lamenting ;  there  love  songs  are  heard,  here  despair- 
ing elegies.  One  will  pass  all  the  hours  of  the  night  seated 
at  the  foot  of  some  oak  or  rock,  and  there,  without  having 
closed  his  weeping  eyes,  the  sun  finds  him  in  the  morning 
bemused  and  bereft  of  sense;  and  another  without  i-elief  or 
respite  to  his  sighs,  stretched  on  the  burning  sand  in  the  full 
heat  of  the  sultry  summer  noontide,  makes  his  appeal  to  the 
compassionate  heavens,  and  over  one  and  the  other,  over  these 
and  all,  the  beautiful  Marcela  triumphs  free  and  careless. 
And  all  of  us  that  know  her  are  waiting  to  see  wdiat  her  pride 
will  come  to,  and  Avdio  is  to  be  the  happy  man  that  Avill  succeed 
in  taming  a  nature  so  formidable  and  gaining  possession  of  a 
beauty  so  supreme.  All  that  I  have  told  you  being  such  well- 
established  truth,  I  am  persuaded  that  what  they  say  of  the 
ca\ise  of  Chrysostom's  death,  as  our  lad  told  us,  is  the  same. 
And  so  I  advise  you,  seilor,  fail  not  to  be  present  to-morrow  at 
his  burial,  which  will  be  well  worth  seeing,  for  Chrysostom 
had  many  friends,  and  it  is  not  half  a  league  from  this  place 
to  w^here  he  directed  he  shoidd  be  buried." 

"  I  will  make  a  point  of  it,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  I  thank 
you  for  the  pleasure  you  have  given  me  by  relating  so  interest- 
ing a  tale." 

^'  Oh,"  said  the  goatherd,  '•  I  do  not  know  even  the  half  of 
what  has  happened  to  the  lovers  of  Marcela,  but  perhaps  to- 
morrow we  may  fall  in  with  some  shepherd  on  the  roacl  who 
can  tell  us  ;  and  now  it  will  be  well  for  you  to  go  and  sleep 
under  cover,  for  the  night  air  may  hurt  your  wound,  though 
with  the  remedy  I  have  applied  to  you  there  is  no  fear  of  an 
untoAvard   result." 

Sancho  Panza,  who  was  wishing  the  goatherd's  loqiiacity  at 
the  devil/  on  his  part  begged  his  master  to  go  into  Pedro's  hut 

'  Perhaps  the  reader  will  think  Sancho  had  some  justification ;  an  epi- 
demic   of  verbosity,    indeed,   rages    round   the    corpse    of   the   unhappy 


CHAPTER    XTTT.  77 

to  sleep.  He  did  so,  and  passed  all  the  rest  of  the  night  in 
thinking  of  his  lady  Dulcinea,  in  imitation  of  the  lovers  of 
Marcela.  Sancho  Panza  settled  himself  between  Rocinante 
and  his  ass,  and  slept,  not  like  a  lover  who  had  been  discarded, 
but  like  a  man  who  had  been  soundly  kicked. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

IN    WHICH    IS    ENDED    THE    STORY    OF     THE     SHEPHERDESS 
MARCELA,    WITH    OTHER    INCIDENTS. 

But  hardly  had  day  begun  to  show  itself  through  the  bal- 
conies of  the  east,  when  five  of  the  six  goatherds  come  to  rouse 
Don  Quixote  and  tell  him  that  if  he  was  still  of  a  mind  to  go 
and  see  the  famous  burial  of  Chrysostom  they  would  bear  him 
company.  Don  Quixote,  who  desired  nothing  better,  rose  and 
ordered  Sancho  to  saddle  and  pannel  at  once,  which  he  did 
with  all  despatch,  and  with  the  same  they  all  set  out  forth- 
with. They  had  not  gone  a  quarter  of  a  leagne  when  at  the 
meeting  of  two  paths  they  saw  coming  towards  them  some  six 
shepherds  dressed  in  black  sheepskins  and  with  their  heads 
crowned  with  garlands  of  cypress  and  bitter  oleander.  Each 
of  them  carried  a  stout  holly  staff  in  his  hand,  and  along  Avith 
them  there  came  two  men  of  quality  on  horseback  in  hand- 
some travelling  dress,  with  three  servants  on  foot  accompany- 
ing them.  Courteous  salutations  were  exchanged  on  meeting, 
and  inquiring  one  of  the  other  which  way  each  party  was  going, 
they  learned  that  all  were  bound  for  the  scene  of  the  burial, 
so  they  went  on  all  together. 

One  of  those  on  horseback  addressing  his  companion  said  to 
him,  "  It  seems  to  me,  Seiior  Vivaldo,  that  we  may  reckon  as 
well  spent  the  delay  we  shall  incur  in  seeing  this  remarkable 
funeral,  for  remarkable  it  cannot  but  be  judging  by  the  strange 
things  these  shepherds  have  told  ns,  of  both  the  dead  shepherd 
and  homicide  shepherdess." 

Chrysostom;  but  it  must  be  remembered  verbosity  was  then  ramj^ant  in 
literature  and  especially  in  Spanish  literature,  as  all  who  know  Guzman 
de  Alfarache,  The  Ficara  Justina,  Marcos  de  Obregon^  and  books  of  the 
same  sort,  will  own ;  and  if  Cervantes  did  not  wholly  escape  it,  his  fits  of 
it  were  onlv  occasional. 


78  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  So  I  think  too,"  replied  Yivaldo,  "  and  I  would  delay  not 
to  say  a  day,  but  four,  for  the  sake  of  seeing  it." 

Don  Quixote  asked  them  what  it  was  they  had  heard  of 
Marcela  and  Chrysostoni.  The  traveller  answered  that  the 
same  morning  they  had  met  these  shepherds,  and  seeing  them 
dressed  in  this  mournful  fashion  they  had  asked  them  the 
reason  of  their  appearing  in  such  a  guise ;  which  one  of  them 
gave,  describing  the  strange  behavior  and  beauty  of  a  shep- 
herdess called  Marcela,  and  the  loves  of  many  who  courted  her, 
together  with  the  death  of  that  Chrysostom  to  Avhose  burial 
they  were  going.  In  short,  he  repeated  all  that  Pedro  had 
related  to  Don  Quixote. 

This  conversation  dropped,  and  another  was  commenced  by 
him  who  Avas  called  Vivaldo  asking  Don  Quixote  what  was  the 
reason  that  led  him  to  go  armed  in  that  fashion  in  a  country 
so  peaceful.  To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  "  The  pursuit  of 
my  calling  does  not  allow  or  permit  me  to  go  in  any  other 
fashion ;  easy  life,  enjoyment,  and  repose  were  invented  for 
soft  courtiers,  but  toil,  unrest,  and  arms,  were  invented  and 
made  for  those  alone  whom  the  world  calls  knights-errant,  of 
whom  I,  though  unworthy,  am  the  least  of  all." 

The  instant  they  heard  this  all  set  him  do-svn  as  mad,  and 
the  better  to  settle  the  point  and  discover  what  kind  of  mad- 
ness his  was,  Vivaldo  proceeded  to  ask  him  what  knights- 
errant  meant. 

"  Have  not  your  worships,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  read  the 
annals  and  histories  of  England,  in  which  are  recorded  the  fa- 
mous deeds  of  King  Arthur,  whom  we  in  our  popular  Castilian 
invariably  call  King  Artus,  with  regard  to  whom  it  is  an  ancient 
tradition,  and  commonly  received  all  over  that  kingdom  of 
Great  Britain,  that  this  king  did  not  die,  but  Avas  changed  by 
magic  art  into  a  raven,  and  that  in  process  of  time  he  is  to  re- 
turn to  reign  and  recover  his  kingdom  and  sceptre  ;  for  which 
reason  it  cannot  be  proved  that  from  that  time  to  this  any 
Englishman  ever  killed  a  raven  ?  Well,  then,  in  the  time  of 
this  good  king  that  famous  order  of  chivalry  of  the  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table  was  instituted,  and  the  amour  of  Don  Lance- 
lot of  the  Lake  with  the  Queen  Guinevere  occurred,  precisely 
as  is  there  related,  the  go-between  and  confidante  therein  being 
the  highly  honorable  dame  Quintanona,  whence  came  that 
ballad  so  well  known  and  widely  spread  in  our  Spain  — 


CHAPTER    XI 11.  79 

O  never  surely  was  there  knight 

So  served  by  hand  of  dame, 
As  served  was  he  Sir  Lanceh)t  liight 

When  he  from  Britain  came  —  • 

with  all  the  sweet  and  delectable  course  of  his  achievements  in 
love  and  war.  Handed  down  from  that  time,  then,  this  order 
of  chivalry  went  on  extending  and  spreading  itself  over  many 
and  various  parts  of  the  world ;  and  in  it,  famous  and  re- 
nowned for  their  deeds,  were  the  mighty  Amadis  of  Gaul  with 
air  his  sons  and  descendants  to  the  fifth  generation,  and  the 
valiant  Felixmarte  of  Hircania,  and  the  never  sufficiently 
praised  Ti^-ante  el  Blanco,  and  in  our  own  days  almost  we  have 
seen  and  heard  and  talked  with  the  invincible  knight  Don 
Belianis  of  Greece.  This,  then,  sirs,  is  to  be  a  knight-errant, 
and  what  I  have  spoken  of  is  the  order  of  his  chivalry,  of 
which,  as  I  have  already  said,  I,  though  a  sinner,  have  made 
profession,  and  what  the  aforesaid  knights  professed  that  same 
do  I  profess,  and  so  I  go  through  these  solitudes  and  wilds 
seeking  adventures,  resolved  in  soul  to  oppose  my  arm  and 
person  to  the  most  perilous  that  fortune  may  offer  me  in  aid  of 
the  weak  and  needy." 

By  these  words  of  his  the  travellers  were  able  to  satisfy 
themselves  of  Don  Quixote's  being  out  of  his  senses  and  of  the 
form  of  madness  that  overmastered  him,  at  which  they  felt  the 
same  astonishment  that  all  felt  on  first  becoming  acquainted 
with  it ;  and  Vivaldo,  who  was  a  person  of  great  shrewdness 
and  of  a  lively  temperament,  in  order  to  beguile  the  short 
joitrney  which  they  said  was  required  to  reach  the  mountain, 
the  scene  of  the  burial,  sought  to  give  him  an  opportunity  of 
going  on  with  his  absurdities.  So  he  said  to  him,  '■  It  seems  to 
me,  Senor  Knight-errant,  that  your  worshi})  has  made  choice  of 
one  of  the  most  austere  professions  in  the  world,  and  1  imagine 
even  that  of  the  Carthusian  monks  is  not  so  austere." 

"As  austere  it  may  perhaps  be,"  replied  our  Don  Quixote, 
"  but  so  necessary  for  the  world  I  am  very  much  inclined  to 

'The  ballad  (Cancionero  de  Romances^  Antwerp,  s.a.,  and  Duran,  No. 
352)  is  that  parodied  by  Don  Quixote  in  Chap.  ii.  "  Britain  "  is,  of  course, 
Brittany;  Lancelot's  father,  King  Ban,  was  a  Breton.  The  idea  of  the 
"go-between"  is  derived  from  an  Italian  source,  but  the  name  Quintaiiona 
is  Spanish ;  it  means  simply  an  old  woman,  one  who  has  a  quintal,  or 
hundred-weight  of  years  on  her  back.  The  transformation  of  Arthur 
into  a  raven  is  also  a  Southern  addition  to  the  Arthurian  legend.  Cer- 
vantes ridicules  the  story  in  Persiles  ami  Sigismunda. 


80  DON    QUIXOTE. 

doubt.     For,  if  the  truth  is  to  be  tokl,  the  soklier  who  exe- 
cutes what  his  captain  orders   does  no  less  than  the  captain 
himself  who   gives  the   order.     My  meaning  is,  that  church- 
men  in   peace   and  quiet  pray  to  Heaven  for  the  welfare  of 
the  world,  but  we  soldiers  and  knights  carry  into  effect  what 
they  pray  for,  defending  it  with  the  might  of  our  arms   and 
the   edge   of  our   swords,  not  under  shelter  but  in  the  open 
air,  a  target  for  the   intolerable   rays  of   the   sun  in  summer 
and  the  piercing  frosts  of  winter.     Thus  .are  we   God^s  min- 
isters on    earth   and  the   arms  in  which  his    justice   is  d6ne 
therein.     And  as  the   business   of   war  and  all  that    relates 
and   belongs    to   it   cannot   be    conducted   without^  exceeding 
great    sweat,    toil,    and    exertion,    it  follows    that   those  who 
make  it  their  profession  have  undoubtedly  more  labor  than 
those  who  in  tranquil  peace  and  quiet  are  engaged  in  pray- 
ing to  God  to  help  the  weak.   .  I  do  not  mean  to  say,  nor  does 
it  enter  into  my  thoughts,  that  the  knight-errant's  calling  is 
as   good  as  that  of  the   monk  in   his    cell ;  I   would   merely 
infer  from  what  I  endure  myself  that  it  is   beyond  a  doubt 
a  more   laborious   and  a  more   belabored  one,  a  hungrier  and 
thirstier,  a  wretcheder,  raggeder,  and  lousier ;  for  there  is  no 
reason  to  doubt  that  the  knights-errant  of  yore  endured  much 
hardship  in  the  course  of  their  lives.     And  if   some  of  them 
by  the  might  of  their  arms   did  rise  to  be  emperors,  in  faith 
it  cost  them  dear  in  the  matter  of  blood  and  sweat ;  and  if 
those  who  attained  to  that  rank  had  not  had  magicians  and 
sages  to  help  them  they  would  have  been  completely  balked 
in" their  ambition  and  disappointed  in  their  hopes." 

'<  That  is  my  own  opinion,"  replied  the  traveller  ;  "  but  one 
thing  among  many  others  seems  to  me  very  wrong  in  knights- 
errant,  and  that  is  that  when  they  hnd  themselves  about  to 
engage  in  some  mighty  and  perilous  adventure  in  which  there 
is  manifest  danger  of  losing  their  lives,  they  never  at  the 
moment  of  engaging  in  it  think  of  commending  themselves 
to  God,  as  is  the  duty  of  every  good  Christian  in  like  peril ; 
instead  of  which  they  commend  themselves  to  their  ladies 
with  as  much  heartiness  and  devotion  as  if  these  were  their 
gods,  a  thing  which  seems  to  me  to  savor  somewhat  of  hea- 
thenism." 

"  Sir,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  "  that  can  not  be  on  any 
account  omitted,  and  the  knight-errant  would  be  disgraced 
who  acted  otherwise :  for  it  is  usual  and  customary  in  knight- 


CHAPTER    Mil.  81 

errantry  that  tlie  knight-errant  Avho  on  engaging  in  any  great 
feat  of  arms  has  his  lady  l)efore  him,  shoiikl  turn  liis  eyes 
towards  her  softly  and  lovingly,  as  though  Avith  them  en- 
treating her  to  favor  and  protect  him  in  the  hazardous  ven- 
ture he  is  about  to  undertake,  and  even  though  no  one  hear 
him,  he  is  bound  to  say  certain  words  between  his  teeth, 
commending  himself  to  her  with  all  his  heart,  and  of  this 
we  have  innumerable  instances  in  the  histories.  Nor  is  it 
to  be  supposed  from  this  that  they  are  to  omit  commending 
themselves  to  God,  for  there  will  be  time  and  opportunity  for 
doing  so  while  they  are  engaged  in  their  task." 

''  For  all  that,"  answered  the  traveller,  "  I  feel  some  doubt 
still,  because  often  I  have  read  how  words  will  arise  between 
two  knights-errant,  and  from  one  thing  to  another  it  comes 
abo;it  that  their  anger  kindles  and  they  wheel  their  horses 
round  and  take  a  good  stretch  of  held,  and  then  without  any 
more  ado  at  the  top  of  their  speed  they  come  to  the  charge, 
and  in  mid-career  they  commend  themselves  to  their  ladies  ;* 
and  what  commonly  conies  of  the  encounter  is  that  one  falls 
over  tlie  haunches  of  his  horse  pierced  through  and  through  by 
his  antagonist's  lance,  and  as  for  the  other,  it  is  only  by  hold- 
ing on  to  the  mane  of  his  horse  that  he  can  help  falling  to  the 
ground ;  but  I  know  not  how  the  dead  num  had  time  to  com- 
mend himself  to  God  in  the  course  of  such  ra})id  work  as  this ; 
it  would  have  been  better  if  those  words  which  he  spent  in 
commending  himself  to  his  lady  in  the  midst  of  his  career  had 
been  devoted  to  his  duty  and  obligation  as  a  Christian.  More- 
over, it  is  my  belief  that  all  knights-errant  have  not  ladies  to 
commend  themselves  to,  for  they  are  not  all  in  love." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''  I  say  it  is  impos- 
sible that  there  could  be  a  knight-errant  witlumt  a  lady,  be- 
cause to  such  it  is  as  natural  and  proper  to  be  in  love  as  to  the 
heavens  to  have  stars  ;  most  certainly  no  history  has  been 
seen  in  which  there  is  to  be  found  a  knight-errant  Avithout  an 
amour,  and  for  the  simple  reason  that  without  one  he  would 
be  held  no  legitimate  knight,  but  a  bastard,  and  one  who 
had  gained  entrance  into  the  stronghold  of  the  said  knight- 
hood, not  by  the  door,  but  over  the  Avail  like  a  thief  and  a 
robber." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  traveller,  '''  if  I  remember  rightly, 
I  think  I  have  read  that  Don  Galaor,  the  brother  of  the  val- 
iant Amadis  of  Gaul,  never  had  any  special  lady  to  Avhom  he 

Vol.  I.—  6 


82  DON    QUIXOTE. 

might  commend  himself,  and  yet  he  was  not  the  less  esteemed, 
and  was  a  very  stout  and  famous  knight." 

To  which  our  Don  Quixote  made  answer,  '■'■  Sir,  one  solitary 
swallow  does  not  make  summer ; '  moreover,  I  know  that  that 
knight  Avas  in  secret  very  deeply  in  love  ;  besides  which,  that 
way  of  falling  in  love  with  all  that  took  his  fancy  was  a  nat- 
ural propensity  which  he  could  not  control.  But,  in  short,  it 
is  ver}^  manifest  that  he  had  one  alone  whom  he  made  mis- 
tress of  his  will,  to  whom  he  commended  himself  frequently 
and  very  secretly,  for  he  prided  himself  on  being  a  reticent 
knight." 

"  Then  if  it  be  essential  that  every  knight-errant  should  be 
in  love,"  said  the  traveller,  "  it  may  be  fairly  supposed  that 
your  worship  is  so,  as  you  are  of  the  order  ;  and  if  you  do  not 
pride  yourself  on  being  as  reticent  as  Don  Galaor,  I  entreat 
you  as  earnestly  as  I  can,  in  the  name  of  all  this  company  and 
in  my  own,  to  inform  us  of  the  name,  country,  rank,  and  beauty 
of  your  lady,  for  she  will  esteem  herself  fortunate  if  all  the 
world  knows  that  she  is  loved  and  served  by  such  a  knight  as 
your  worship  seems  to  be." 

At  this  Don  Quixote  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  said,  "  I  can 
not  say  positively  whether  my  sweet  enemy  is  pleased  or  not 
that  the  world  should  know  I  serve  her  ;  I  can  only  say  in 
answer  to  what  has  been  so  courteously  asked  of  me,  that  her 
name  is  Dulcinea,  her  country  El  Toboso,  a  village  of  La 
Mancha,  her  rank  must  be  at  least  that  of  a  princess,  since  she 
is  my  queen  and  lady,  and  her  beauty  superhuman,  since  all 
the  impossible  and  fanciful  attributes  of  beauty  which  the 
poets  apply  to  their  ladies  are  verified  in  her ;  for  her  hairs  are 
gold,  her  forehead  Elysian  fields,  her  eyebrows  rainbows,  her 
eyes  suns,  her  cheeks  roses,  her  lips  coral,  her  teeth  pearls,  her 
neck  alabaster,  her  bosom  marble,  her  hands  ivory,  her  fairness 
snow,  and  what  modesty  conceals  from  sight  such,  I  think  and 
imagine,  as  rational  reflection  can  only  extol,  not  compare." 

'•  We  should  like  to  know  her  lineage,  race,  and  ancestry," 
said  Vivaldo. 

To  which  Don  Quixote  replied,  ''  She  is  not  of  the  ancient 
Roman  Curtii,  Caii,  or  Scipios,  nor  of  the  modern  Colonnas  or 
Orsini,  nor  of  the  Moncadas  or  Requesenes  of  Catalonia,  nor 
yet  of  the  Rebellas  or  Villanovas  of  Valencia ;  Palafoxes, 
Xuzas,  Rocabertis,  Corellas,  Lunas,  Alagones,  Urreas,  Foces,  or 

Trov.  lUG. 


CHAPTER    XIII.  83 

Gurreas  of  Aragon  ;  Cerdas,  Maniiqties,  Mendozas,  or  Guzraans 
of  Castile  ;  Alencastros,  Pallas,  or  Meneses  of  Portugal  ;  but 
she  is  of  those  of  El  Toboso  of  La  Maueha,  a  lineage  that, 
though  modern,  may  furnish  a  source  of  gentle  blood  for  the 
most  illustrious  families  of  the  ages  that  are  to  come,  and  this 
let  none  dispute  with  me  save  on  the  condition  that  Zerbino 
placed  at  the  foot  of  the  trophy  of  Orlando's  arms  saying, 

Tliese  let  none  move 
Who  dareth  not  his  might  witli  Roland  ])rove."  ' 

"  Although  mine  is  of  the  Cachopins  of  Laredo,"  ^  said  the 
traveller,  "  I  will  not  venture  to  compare  it  with  that  of  El 
Toboso  of  La  Mancha,  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  no  such  surname 
has  until  now  ever  reached  my  ears." 

"  What !  "  said  Don  Quixote,  "  has  that  never  reached 
them  ?  " 

The  rest  of  the  party  went  along  listening  with  great  atten- 
tion to  the  conversation  of  the  pair,  and  even  the  very  goat- 
herds and  shepherds  perceived  how  exceedingly  out  of  his  wits 
our  Don  Quixote  was.  Sancho  Panza  alone  thought  that  what 
his  master  said  was  the  truth,  knowing  who  he  was  and  having 
known  him  from  his  birth ;  and  all  that  he  felt  any  difficulty 
in  believing  was  that  about  the  fair  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  be- 
cause neither  any  such  name  nor  any  such  princess  had  ever 
come  to  his  knowledge  though  he  lived  so  close  to  El  Toboso.'^ 
They  were  going  along  conversing  in  this  way,  when  they  saw 
descending  a  gap  between  two  high  mountains  *  some  twenty 
shepherds,  all  clad  in  sheepskins  of  black  wool,  and  crowned 

'  "  Nessun  la  mova 
Che  star  non  possa  con  Orlando  prova." 

Orlando  Furioso,  xxiv.  57. 

But  Zerbino's  inscription  was  simply  "  Armatura  d'Orlando  Paladino,"  and 
the  quotation  is  merely  the  poet's  gloss  upon  it. 

^  Cac'h()i)in,  or  Gachupin,  a  word  of  Indian  origin,  and  applied  to  Span- 
iards living  in  or  returned  from  the  Indies.  Laredo  is  a  seaport  close  to 
Santander,  where  also  the  Cachopins  were  numerous,  as  appears  from  a 
quaint  inscription  on  one  of  the  houses  quoted  by  Bowie. 

^  Ilartzenbusch  in  his  anxiety  for  precision  alters  this,  as  he  considers 
that  El  Toboso,  being  about  seven  leagues  from  Argamasilla,  cannot  be 
properly  described  as  "  near  "  it. 

*  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe  that  these  high  mountains  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Argamasilla  are  purely  imaginary.  The  nearest  that 
could  by  any  stretch  of  courtesy  be  called  high  would  be  those  of  the 
Toledo  Sierra  some  sixty  or  seventy  miles  distant. 


84  DON    QUIXOTE. 

with  garlands  whicli,  as  afterwards  appeared,  were,  some  of 
them  of  yew,  some  of  cypress.  Six  of  the  number  were  carry- 
ing a  bier  covered  with  a  great  variety  of  flowers  and  branches, 
on  seeing  Avhich  one  of  the  goatherds  said,  ''  Those  who  come 
there  are  the  bearers  of  Chrysostom's  body,  and  the  foot  of 
that  moimtain  is  the  place  where  he  ordered  them  to  bury 
him."  They  therefore  made  haste  to  reach  the  spot,  and  did 
so  by  the  time  those  who  came  had  laid  the  bier  upon  the 
ground,  and  four  of  them  with  sharp  pickaxes  were  digging  a 
grave  by  the  side  of  a  hard  rock.  They  greeted  each  other 
courteously,  and  then  Don  Quixote  and  those  who  accom- 
panied him  turned  to  examine  the  bier,  and  on  it,  covered 
with  flowers,  they  saw  a  dead  body  in  the  dress  of  a  shepherd, 
to  all  appearance  of  one  thirty  years  of  age,  and  showing  even 
in  death  that  in  life  he  had  been  of  comely  features  and  gal- 
lant bearing.  Around  him  on  the  bier  itself  were  laid  some 
books,  and  several  papers  open  and  folded;  and  those  who 
were  looking  on  as  well  as  those  who  were  opening  the 
grave  and  all  the  others  who  were  there  preserved  a  strange 
silence,  until  one  of  those  who  had  borne  the  body  said  to 
another,  "  Observe  carefully,  Ambrosio,  if  this  is  the  place 
Chrysostom  spoke  of,  since  you  are  anxious  that  what  he 
directed  in  his  will   should  be  so  strictly  complied  with. 

"  This  is  the  place,"  answered  Ambrosio,  "  for  in  it  many  a 
time  did  my  poor  friend  tell  me  the  story  of  his  hard  fortune. 
Here  it  was,  he  told  me,  that  he  saw  for  the  first  time  that 
mortal  enemy  of  the  human  race,  and  here,  too,  for  the  first 
time  he  declared  to  her  his  passion,  as  honorable  as  it  was  de- 
voted, and  here  it  was  that  at  last  Marcela  ended  by  scorning 
and  rejecting  him  so  as  to  bring  the  tragedy  of  his  wretched 
life  to  a  close ;  here,  in  memory  of  misfortunes  so  great,  he 
desired  to  be  laid  in  the  bowels  of  eternal  oblivion."  ^  Then 
turning  to  Don  Quixote  and  the  travellers  he  went  on  to  say, 
''  That  body,  sirs,  on  which  you  are  looking  with  compassion- 
ate eyes,  was  the  abode  of  a  soul  on  which  Heaven  bestowed 
a  vast  share  of  its  riches.  That  is  the  body  of  Chrysostom, 
who  was  unrivalled  in  wit,  unequalled  in  courtesy,  unap- 
l^roached  in  gentle  bearing,  a  phcenix  in  friendship,  generous 
without  limit,  grave  without  arrogance,  gay  without  vulgarity, 
and,  in  short,  first  in  all  that  constitutes  goodness  and-  second 

'  This  is  one  of  the  passages  selected  by  Biedermann  as  specimens  of 
blunders  made  by  Cervantes,  but  by  en  memoria  Cervantes  does  not 
mean  to  "  commemorate,"  but  rather  to  "mark"  or"  signalize." 


CHAPTER    Xni.  85 

to  none  in  all  that  makes  up  misfortune.  He  loved  deeply, 
he  was  hated ;  he  adored,  he  was  scorned ;  he  wooed  a  wild 
beast,  he  pleaded  with  marble,  he  pursued  the  wind,  he  cried 
to  the  wilderness,  he  served  ingratitude,  and  for  reward  was 
made  the  prey  of  death  in  the  mid-course  of  life,  cut  short  by 
a  shepherdess  whom  he  sought  to  immortalize  in  the  mem- 
ory of  mankind,  as  these  papers  which  you  see  could  fully 
prove,  had  he  not  commanded  me  to  consign  them  to  the  tire 
after  having  consigned  his  body  to  the  earth." 

''  You  would  deal  with  them  more  harshly  and  cruelly  than 
their  owner  himself,''  said  Vivaldo,  "  for  it  is  neither  right  nor 
pro})er  to  do  the  will  of  one  who  enjoins  what  is  Avholly  ini- 
reasonable  ;  it  would  not  have  been  reasonable  in  Augustus 
Ceesar  had  he  permitted  the  directions  left  by  the  divine  Man- 
tuan  in  his  Avill  to  be  carried  into  effect.  So  that,  Seiior  Am- 
brosio,  while  you  consign  your  friend's  body  to  the  earth,  you 
should  not  consign  his  writings  to  oblivion,  for  if  he  gave  the 
order  in  bitterness  of  heart,  it  is  not  right  that  you  should  ir- 
rationally obey  it.  On  the  contrary,  by  granting  life  to  those 
papers,  let  the  cruelty  of  Marcela  live  forever,  to  serve  as  a 
warning  in  ages  to  come  to  all  men  to  shun  and  avoid  falling 
into  like  danger  :  for  I  and  all  of  us  who  have  come  here  know 
already  the  story  of  this  your  love-stricken  and  heart-broken 
friend,  and  we  know,  too,  your  friendship,  and  the  cause  of 
his  death,  and  the  directions  he  gave  at  the  close  of  his  life  ; 
from  which  sad  story  may  be  gathered  how  great  was  the 
cruelty  of  Marcela,  the  love  of  Chrysostom,  and  the  loyalty  of 
your  friendship,  together  with  the  end  awaiting  those  who 
pursue  rashly  the  path  that  insane  passion  opens  to  their  eyes. 
Last  night  Ave  learned  the  death  of  Chrysostom  and  that  he 
was  to  be  buried  here,  and  out  of  curiosity  and  pity  we  left 
our  direct  road  and  resolved  to  come  and  see  with  our  eyes 
that  which  when  heard  of  had  so  moved  our  compassion,  aiul 
in  consideration  of  that  compassion  and  our  desire  to  prove  it  if 
we  might  by  condolence,  Ave  beg  of  you,  excellent  Ambrosio,  or  at 
least  I  on  my  own  account  entreat  you,  that  instead  of  burning 
those  papers  you  alloAv  me  to  carry  away  some  of  them." 

And  Avithout  Avaiting  for  the  shepherd's  ansAver,  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  and  took  up  some  of  those  that  Avere  nearest  to 
him  ;  seeing  which  Ambrosio  said,  '•'  Out  of  courtesy,  senor,  I 
will  grant  your  request  as  to  those  you  have  taken,  but  it  is 
idle  to  expect  me  to  abstain  from  burning  the  remainder," 


86  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Vivaldo,  who  was  eager  to  see  what  the  papers  contained, 
opened  one  of  them  at  once,  and  saw  that  its  title  was  '*  Lay 
of  Despair." 

Ambrosio  hearing  it  said,  "  That  is  the  last  paper  the  nn- 
happy  man  wrote ;  and  that  you  may  see,  senor,  to  what  an 
end  his  misfortunes  broiight  him,  read  it  so  that  you  may  be 
heard,  for  you  will  have  time  enough  for  that  while  ^YQ  are 
waiting  for  the  grave  to  be  dug." 

''  I  will  do  so  very  willingly,"  said  Vivaldo  ;  and  as  all  the 
bystanders  were  equally  eager  they  gathered  round  him,  and 
he,  reading  in  a  loud  voice,  found  that  it  ran  as  follows. 


DEAD    SHEPHERD,    TOGETHER    WITH    OTHER    INCIDENTS    NOT 
1 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

WHEREIN     ARE     INSERTED     THE    DESPAIRING    VERSES     OF     THE 
DEAD    SHEPHE 
LOOKED    FOR.^ 

THE   LAY   OF   CHRYSOSTOM.^ 

Since  thou  dost  in  thy  cruelty  desire 
The  ruthless  rigor  of  thy  tyranny 
From  tongue  to  tongue,  from  land  to  land  proclaimed, 
The  very  Hell  will  I  constrain  to  lend 
This  stricken  breast  of  mine  deep  notes  of  woe 
To  serve  my  need  of  fitting  utterance. 
And  as  I  strive  to  body  forth  the  tale 

^  There  is  here  a  play  upon  the  words  desesperados,  "  despairing,"  and 
no  esperados,  "not  lookecl  for:"  many  of  tlie  headings  to  the  chapters 
contain  some  verbal  conceit  of  this  kind. 

^Tiie  "Lay  of  Chrysostom  "  must  not  be  judged  of  by  a  translation. 
The  original  is  not  so  much  a  piece  of  jjoetry,  as  a  fantasia  in  rhyme  and 
an  experiment  in  versification.  Whether  Italian  or  Spanish,  the  canzone 
or  cancion  is  from  its  style  hard  to  translate  into  our  matter-of-fact  Eng- 
lish, but  the  difficulty  here  is  increased  by  the  peculiarly  complex  stanza 
and  intricate  system  of  interlaced  rhymes  which  Cervantes  adopted,  as 
well  as  l)y  the  inimitable  rhythm  and  harmony  of  the  lines.  One  pecu- 
liarity, borrowed,  it  may  be,  from  Garcilaso,  is  that  of  a  line  with  a 
medial  rhyme  to  the  termination  of  the  preceding  line,  which  produces  a 
cadence  that  falls  upon  the  ear  like  tliat  of  waves  upon  a  distant  shore. 
It  might  be  possible  to  imitate  the  arrangement  of  rhymes,  but  to  imitate 
the  effect  or  reproduce  the  melody  in  our  consonantal  language  would  be 
an  utter  impossibility. 


CHAPTER    XIV.        '  87 

Of  all  I  suffer,  all  that  thou  hast  done, 

Forth  shall  the  dread  voice  roll,  and  bear  along 

Shreds  from  my  vitals  torn  for  greater  pain. 

Then  listen,  not  to  dulcet  harmony, 

But  to  a  discord  wrung  by  nuid  despair 

Out  of  this  bosom's  depths  of  bitterness, 

To  ease  my  heart  and  plant  a  sting  in  thine. 

The  lion's  roar,  the  fierce  wolf's  savage  howl, 
The  horrid  hissing  of  the  scaly  snake. 
The  awesome  cries  of  monsters  3^et  unnamed, 
The  crow's  ill-boding  croak,  the  hollow  moan 
Of  wild  winds  wrestling  with  the  restless  sea, 
The  wrathful  bellow  of  the  vanquished  bull. 
The  plaintive  sobbing  of  the  widowed  dove,^ 
The  envied  owl's  sad  note,"-^  the  wail  of  woe 
That  rises  from  the  dreary  choir  of  Hell, 
Commingled  in  one  sound,  confusing  sense. 
Let  all  these  come  to  aid  my  soul's  complaint, 
For  pain  like  mine  demands  new  modes  of  song. 

No  echoes  of  that  discord  shall  be  heard 
Where  Father  Tagus  rolls,  or  on  the  banks 
Of  olive-bordered  Betis  ;  ^  to  the  rocks 
Or  in  deep  caverns  shall  my  plaint  be  told, 
And  by  a  lifeless  tongue  in  living  words ; 
Or  in  dark  valleys  or  on  lonely  shores. 
Where  neither  foot  of  man  nor  sunbeam  falls  ; 
Or  in  among  the  poison-breathing  swarms 
Of  monsters  nourished  by  the  sluggish  Nile. 
For,  though  it  be  to  solitudes  remote 
The  hoarse  vague  echoes  of  my  sorrows  sound 
Thy  matchless  cruelty,  my  dismal  fate 
Shall  carry  them  to  all  the  spacious  world. 

Disdain  hath  powder  to  kill,  and  patience  dies 
Slain  by  suspicion,  be  it  false  or  true ; 

'  "  And  the  hoarse  sobbing  of  the  widowed  dove." 

Drummond  of  JTawthornden. 

^  The  owl  was  the  only  bird  that  witnessed  the  Crucifixion,  and  it  be- 
came for  tluit  reason  an  object  of  envy  to  the  other  birds,  so  much  so  that 
it  can  not  appear  in  the  daytime  without  being  persecuted. 

^  Betis  —  i.e.  the  Guadalquivir. 


88  DO^    QUIXOTE. 

And  deadly  is  the  force  of  jealousy : 
Long  absence  makes  of  life  a  dreary  void ; 
No  hope  of  happiness  can  give  repose 
To  him  that  ever  fears  to  be  forgot ; 
And  death,  inevitable,  waits  in  all. 
But  I,  by  some  strange  miracle,  live  on 
A  prey  to  absence,  jealousy,  disdain; 
Racked  by  suspicion  as  by  certainty  ; 
Forgotten,  left  to  feed  my  flame  alone. 
And  while  I  siiffer  thus,  there  comes  no  ray 
Of  hope  to  gladden  me  athwart  the  gloom ; 
Nor  do  I  look  for  it  in  my  despair ; 
But  rather  clinging  to  a  cureless  woe, 
All  hope  do  I  abjure  for  evermore. 

Can  there  be  hope  where  fear  is  ?     Were  it  well, 
When  far  more  certain  are  the  grounds  of  fear  ? 
Ought  I  to  shut  mine  eyes  to  jealousy, 
If  through  a  thousand  lieart-wounds  it  appears  ? 
AVho  would  not  give  free  access  to  distrust, 
Seeing  disdain  unveiled,  and  —  bitter  change  !  — 
All  his  suspicions  turned  to  certainties. 
And  the  fair  truth  transformed  into  a  lie  ? 
Oh,  thou  fierce  tyrant  of  the  realms  of  love 
Oh,  Jealousy  !  put  chains  upon  these  hands. 
And  bind  me  with  thy  strongest  cord,  Disdain. 
But,  woe  is  me  !  triumphant  over  all. 
My  sufferings  drown  the  memory  of  you. 

And  now  I  die,  and  since  there  is  no  hope 
Of  happiness  for  me  in  life  or  death, 
Still  to  my  fantasy  I  '11  fondly  cling. 
I  '11  say  that  he  is  wise  who  loveth  well, 
And  that  the  soul  most  free  is  that  most  bound 
In  thraldom  to  the  ancient  tyrant  Love. 
I'll  say  that  she  who  is  mine  enemy 
In  that  fair  body  hath  as  fair  a  mind. 
And  that  her  coldness  is  but  my  desert, 
And  that  by  virtue  of  the  pain  he  sends 
Love  rules  his  kingdom  with  a  gentle  sway. 
Thus,  self-deluding,  and  in  bondage  sore. 
And  wearing  out  the  wretched  shred  of  life 


CHAPTER    XIV.  89 

To  wliich  I  am  reduced  by  her  disdain, 
I  '11  give  this  soul  and  botly  to  the  winds, 
All  hopeless  of  a  crown  of  bliss  in  store. 

Thou  Avhose  injustice  hath  supplied  the  cause 
That  makes  me  (|uit  the  weary  life  I  loathe, 
As  by  this  wounded  bosom  thou  canst  see 
How  willingly  thy  victim  I  become, 
Let  not  my  death,  if  haply  worth  a  tear. 
Cloud  the  clear  heaven  tliat  dwells  in  thy  bright  eyes ; 
I  would  not  have  thee  expiate  in  aught 
The  crime  of  having  made  my  heart  thy  prey ; 
But  rather  let  thy  laughter  gayly  ring 
And  prove  my  death  to  be  thy  festival. 
Fool  that  I  am  to  bid  thee  !  well  I  know 
Thy  glory  gains  by  my  untimely  end. 

And  noAV  it  is  the  time ;  from  Hell's  abyss 
Come  thirsting  Tantalus,  come  Sisyphus 
Heaving  the  cruel  stone,  come  Tityus 
With  vulture,  and  with  wheel  Ixion  come, 
And  come  the  sisters  of  the  ceaseless  toil ; 
And  all  into  this  breast  transfer  their  pains. 
And  (if  such  tribute  to  despair  be  due) 
Chant  in  their  deepest  tones  a  doleful  dirge 
Over  a  corse  unworthy  of  a  shroud. 
Let  the  three-headed  guardian  of  the  gate. 
And  all  the  monstrous  progeny  of  hell, 
The  doleful  concert  join  :  a  lover  dead 
Methinks  can  have  no  fitter  obsequies. 

Lay  of  despair,  grieve  not  when  thou  art  gone 
Forth  from  this  sorrowhig  heart :  my  misery 
Brings  fortune  to  the  cause  that  gave  thee  birth ; 
Then  banish  sadness  even  in  the  tomb. 

The  "  Lay  of  Chrysostoni "  met  with  the  approbation  of  the 
listeners,  though  the  reader  said  it  did  not  seem  to  him  to  agree 
with  what  he  liad  heard  of  Marcela's  reserve  and  propriety, 
for  Chrysostom  complained  in  it  of  jealousy,  suspicion,  and 
absence,  all  to  the  prejudice  of  the  good  name  and  fame  of 
Marcela ;  to  which  Ambrosio  replied  as  one  who  knew  well 


90  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Ms  friend's  most  secret  thoughts,  "  Senor,  to  remove  that  doubt 
I  should  tell  you  that  when  the  unhappy  man  wrote  this  lay  he 
was  away  from  Marcela,  from  Avhom  he  had  voluntarily  sepa- 
rated himself,  to  try  if  absence  would  act  Avith  him  as  it  is 
wont ;  and  as  everything  distresses  and  every  fear  haunts  the 
banished  lover,  so  imaginary  jealousies  and  suspicions,  dreaded 
as  if  they  were  true,  tormented  Chrysostom  ;  and  thus  the  truth 
of  what  report  declares  of  the  virtue  of  Marcela  remains  un- 
shaken, and  with  her  envy  itself  should  not  and  can  not  find 
any  fault  save  that  of  being  cruel,  somewhat  liaughty,  and  very 
scornful." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Yivaldo  ;  and  as  he  was  about  to  read 
another  paper  of  those  he  had  preserved  from  the  fire,  he  Avas 
stopped  by  a  marvellous  vision  (for  such  it  seemed)  that  unex- 
pectedly presented  itself  to  their  eyes  ;  for  on  the  summit  of  the 
rock  where  they  were  digging  the  grave  there  appeared  the 
shepherdess  Marcela,  so  beautiful  that  her  beaut}"  exceeded  its 
reputation.  Those  who  had  never  till  then  beheld  her  gazed 
upon  her  in  wonder  and  silence,  and  those  who  were  accustomed 
to  see  her  were  not  less  amazed  than  those  who  had  never  seen 
her  before.  But  the  instant  Ambrosio  saw  her  he  addressed 
her,  with  manifest  indignation,  "  Art  thou  come,  cruel  basilisk 
of  these  mountains,  to  see  if  haply  in  thy  presence  blood  will 
flow  from  the  wounds  of  this  wretched  being  thy  cruelty  has 
robbed  of  life ;  or  is  it  to  exult  over  the  cruel  work  of  thy 
humors  that  thou  art  come  ;  or  like  another  pitless  Kero  to  look 
down  from  that  height  upon  the  ruin  of  thy  Rome  in  ashes  ;  or 
in  thy  arrogance  to  trample  on  this  ill-fated  corpse,  as  the  un- 
grateful daughter  trampled  on  her  father  Tarquin's  ?  ^  Tell 
us  quickly  for  what  thou  art  come,  or  what  it  is  thou  wouldst 
have,  for,  as  I  know  the  thoughts  of  Chrysostom  never  failed 
to  obey  thee  in  life,  I  will  make  all  these  who  call  themselves 
his  friends  obey  thee,  though  he  be  dead." 

"  I  come  not,  Ambrosio,  for  any  of  the  purposes  thou  hast 
named,"  replied  IVIarcela,  "  but  to  defend  myself  and  to  prove 
how  unreasonable  are  all  those  who  blame  me  for  their  sorrow 
and  for  Chrysostom's  death  ;  and  therefore  I  ask  all  of  you  that 
are  here  to  give  me  your  attention,  for  it  will  not  take  much 
time  or  many  words  to  bring  the  truth  home  to  persons  of  sense. 

'  It  was  the  corpse  of  Serviiis  Tullius  that  was  so  treated  by  liis  daughter 
Tullia,  tlie  wife  of  Tarqiiin,  but  Cervantes  followed  an  old  ballad  in  the 
Flor  de  EnamoradoSy  which  has,  Tullia  hija  de  Tarquino. . 


CHAPTER    XIV.  91 

Heaven  has  made  me,  so  you  say,  beautiful,  and  so  much  so  that 
in  spite  of  yourselves  my  beauty  leads  you  to  love  me  ;  and  for 
the  love  you  show  me  you  say,  and  even  urge,  that  I  am  bound 
to  love  you.  I>y  that  natural  understanding  which  God  has 
given  me  I  know  that  everything  beautiful  attracts  love,  but  I 
can  not  see  how,  by  reason  of  being  loved,  that  which  is  loved 
for  its  beauty  is  bound  to  love  that  which  loves  it ;  besides,  it 
may  happen  that  the  lover  of  that  which  is  beautiful  may  be 
ugly,  and  ugliness  being  detestable,  it  is  very  absurd  to  say,  '  I 
love  thee  because  thou  art  beautiful,  thou  must  love  me  though 
I  be  ngiy.'  l>ut  supposing  the  beauty  equal  on  both  sides,  it 
does  not  follow  that  the  inclinations  must  be  therefore  alike,  for 
it  is  not  every  beauty  that  excites  love,  some  but  pleasing  the 
eye  without  winning  the  affection  ;  and  if  eveay  sort  of  beauty 
excited  love  and  won  the  heart,  the  will  would  wander  vaguely 
to  and  fro  unable  to  make  choice  of  any  ;  for  as  there  is  an  in- 
finity of  beautiful  objects  there  must  be  an  iniinity  of  inclina- 
tions, and  true  love,  I  have  heard  it  said,  is  indivisible,  and 
must  be  voluntary  and  not  compelled.  If  this  be  so,  as  I  be- 
lieve it  to  be,  why  do  you  desire  me  to  bend  my  will  by  force,  for 
no  other  reason  but  that  you  say  you  love  me  ?  Nay  —  tell 
me  —  had  Heaven  made  me  ugly,  as  it  has  made  me  beautiful, 
could  I  with  justice  complain  of  you  for  not  loving  me  ?  More- 
over, you  must  remember  that  the  beauty  I  possess  Avas  no 
choice  of  mine,  for  be  it  what  it  may.  Heaven  of  its  bounty 
gave  it  me  without  my  asking  or  choosing  it ;  and  as  the  viper, 
thoiigh  it  kills  with  it,  does  not  deserve  to  be  blamed  for  the 
poison  it  carries,  as  it  is  a  gift  of  nature,  neither  do  I  deserve 
reproach  for  being  beautiful ;  for  beauty  in  a  modest  woman  is 
like  fire  at  a  distance  or  a  sharp  sword ;  the  one  does  not 
burn,  the  other  does  not  cut,  those  who  do  not  come  too  near. 
Honor  and  virtue  are  the  ornaments  of  the  mind,  without  whicli 
the  body,  though  it  be  so,  has  no  right  to  pass  for  beautiful ;  l)ut 
if  modesty  is  one  of  the  virtues  that  specially  lend  a  grace  and 
charm  to  mind  and  body,  Avhy  should  she  who  is  loved  for  her 
beauty  part  with  it  to  gratify  one  who  for  his  pleasure  alone 
strives  with  all  his  might  and  energy  to  rob  her  of  it  ?  I  was 
born  free,  and  that  I  might  live  in  freedom  I  chose  the  solitude 
of  the  fields  ;  in  the  trees  of  the  mountains  I  find  society,  the 
clear  waters  of  the  brooks  are  my  mirrors,  and  to  the  trees  and 
waters  I  make  known  my  thoughts  and  charms.  I  am  a  fire 
afar  off,  a  sword  laid  aside.     Those  whom  I  have  inspired  Avith 


92  DON    QUIXOTE. 

love  by  letting  tliem  see  me,  I  have  by  words  undeceived,  and 
if  their  longings  live  on  hope  —  and  I  have  given  none  to  Chry- 
sostom  or  to  any  other  —  it  cannot  justly  be  said  that  the  death 
of  any  is  my  doing,  for  it  was  rather  his  own  obstinacy  than 
my  crnelty  that  killed  him  ;  and  if  it  be  made  a  charge  against 
me  that  his  wishes  were  honorable,  and  that  therefore  I  was 
bound  to  yield  to  them,  I  answer  that  when  on  this  very  spot 
where  now  his  grave  is  made  he  declared  to  me  his  pnrity  of 
purpose,  I  told  him  that  mine  Avas  to  live  in  perpetual  solitude, 
and  that  the  earth  alone  should  enjoy  the  fruits  of  my  retire- 
ment and  the  spoils  of  my  beauty  ;  and  if,  after  this  open 
avowal,  he  chose  to  persist  against  hope  and  steer  against  the 
wind,  what  wonder  is  it  that  he  should  sink  in  the  depths  of  his 
infatuation  ?  If  I  had  encouraged  him,  I  should  have  been 
false  ;  if  I  had  gratified  him,  I  should  have  acted  against  my 
own  better  resolution  and  purj^ose.  He  was  persistent  in  spite 
of  warning,  he  despaired  without  being  hated.  Bethink  you 
now  if  it  be  reasonable  that  his  suffering  should  be  laid  to  my 
charge.  Let  him  who  has  been  deceived  complain,  let  him 
whose  encouraged  hopes  have  proved  vain  give  way  to  despair, 
let  him  whom  I  shall  entice  flatter  himself,  let  him  whom  I 
shall  receive  boast;  but  let  not  him  to  whom  I  make  no 
promise,  x;pon  whom  I  practise  no  deception,  whom  I  neither 
entice  nor  receive  call  me  cruel  or  homicide.  It  has  not  been 
so  far  the  will  of  Heaven  that  I  should  love  by  fate,  and  to  ex- 
pect me  to  love  by  choice  is  idle.  Let  this  general  declaration 
serve  for  each  of  my  suitors  on  his  own  account,  and  let  it  be 
understood  from  this  time  forth  that  if  any  one  dies  for  me  it  is 
not  of  jealousy  or  misery  he  dies,  for  she  who  loves  no  one  can 
give  no  cause  for  jealousy  to  any,  and  candor  is  not  to  be  con- 
founded Avith  scorn.  Let  him  who  calls  me  Avild  beast  and 
basilisk,  leave  me  alone  as  something  noxious  and  evil ;  let 
him  who  calls  me  ungrateful,  withhold  his  service ;  who  calls 
me  wayward,  seek  not  my  acquaintance ;  who  calls  me  cruel, 
])ursue  me  not ;  for  this  wild  beast,  this  basilisk,  this  ungrate- 
ful, cruel,  wayward  being  has  no  kind  of  desire  to  seek,  serve, 
know,  or  follow  them.  If  Chrysostom's  impatience  and  vio- 
lent passion  killed  him,  why  should  my  modest  behavior  and 
circumspection  be  blamed  ?  If  I  preserve  my  purity  in  the 
society  of  the  trees,  why  should  he  who  would  have  me  pre- 
serve it  among  men,  seek  to  rob  me  of  it  ?  I  have,  as  you 
know,  wealth  of  my  own,  and  I  covet  not  that  of  others ;  my 


CIt AFTER    XTV.  9^ 

taste  is  for  freedom,  and  I  have  no  relish  for  constraint ;  I 
neither  love  nor  hate  any  one  ;  I  do  not  deceive  this  one  or 
court  that,  or  trifle  with  one  or  play  with  another.  The  mod- 
est converse  of  the  shepherd  girls  of  these  hamlets  and  the  care 
of  my  goats  are  my  recreations  ;  my  desires  are  bounded  by 
these  mountains,  and  if  they  ever  wander  hence  it  is  to  contem- 
plate the  beauty  of  the  heavens,  steps  l)y  which  the  soul  travels 
to  its  primeval  abode." 

With  these  words,  and  not  waiting  to  hear  a  rei)ly,  she 
turned  and  passed  into  the  thickest  part  of  a  Avood  that  was 
hard  by,  leaving  all  who  were  there  lost  in  admiration  as 
much  of  her  good  sense  as  of  her  beauty.  Some  —  those 
wounded  by  the  irresistible  shafts  launched  by  her  bright 
eyes  —  made  as  though  they  would  follow  her,  heedless  of 
the  frank  declaration  they  had  heard;  seeing  which,  and 
deeming  this  a  fitting  occasion  for  the  exercise  of  his  chivalry 
in  aid  of  distressed  damsels,  Don  Quixote,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  hilt  of  his  sword,  exclaimed  in  a  luud  and  distinct  voice  : 

"  Let  no  one,  whatever  his  rank  or  condition,  dare  to  folloAV 
the  beautiful  Marcela,  under  pain  of  incurring  my  fierce  in- 
dignation. She  has  shown  by  clear  and  satisfactory  argu- 
ments that  little  or  no  fault  is  to  be  found  with  her  for 
the  death  of  (Jlirysostom,  and  also  how  far  she  is  from  yield- 
ing to  the  wishes  of  any  of  her  lovers,  for  which  reason, 
instead  of  being  followed  and  persecuted,  she  should  in  justice 
be  honored  and  esteemed  by  all  the  good  people  of  the  world, 
for  she  shows  that  she  is  the  only  Avoman  in  it  that  holds  to 
such  a  virtuous  resolution." 

Whether  it  was  because  of  the  threats  of  Don  Quixote,  or 
because  Ambrosio  told  them  to  fulfil  their  duty  to  their  good 
friend,  none  of  the  shepherds  moved  or  stirred  from  the  spot 
until,  having  finished  the  grave  and  burned  Chrysostonfs 
papers,  they  laid  his  body  in  it,  not  Avithout  many  tears  from 
those  Avho  stood  by.  They  closed  the  grave  Avith  a  heavy 
stone  until  a  slab  Avas  ready  Avhich  Antonio  said  he  meant  to 
have    prepared,   Avith    an    epitaph  Avhich  Avas   to   be  to   this 

effect : 

Beneath  the  stone  before  your  eyes 
The  body  of  a  lover  lies ; 
In  life  he  was  a  shepherd  swain, 
In  death  a  victim  to  disdain. 
Ungrateful,  cruel,  coy,  and  fair, 
Was  she  that  droA^e  him  to  despair, 
And  Love  hath  made  her  his  ally 
For  spreading  wide  his  tyranny. 


94  DON    QUIXOTE. 

They  then  strewed  upon  the  grave  a  profusion  of  flowers  and 
V)ranches,  and  all  expressing  their  condolence  with  his  friend 
Ambrosio,  took  their  leave.  Vivaldo  and  his  companion  did 
the  same ;  and  Don  Quixote  Ijade  farewell  to  his  hosts  and  to 
the  travellers,  who  pressed  him  to  come  with  them  to  Seville, 
as  being  such  a  convenient  place  for  finding  adventures,  for 
they  presented  themselves  in  every  street  and  round  every  cor- 
ner oftener  than  anywhere  else.  Don  Quixote  thanked  them 
for  their  advice  and  for  the  disposition  they  showed  to  do  him 
a  favor,  and  said  that  for  the  present  he  woidd  not,  and  must 
not  go  to  Seville  until  he  had  cleared  all  these  mountains  of 
highwaymen  and  robbers,  of  whom  report  said  they  were  full. 
Seeing  his  good  intention,  the  travellers  were  unwilling  to 
press  him  further,  and  once  more  bidding  him  farewell,  they 
left  him  and  pursued  their  journey,  in  the  course  of  which  they 
did  not  fail  to  disciiss  the  story  of  Marcela  and  Chrysostom  as 
well  as  the  madness  of  Don  Quixote.  He,  on  his  part,  resolved 
to  go  in  quest  of  the  shepherdess  Marcela,  and  make  offer  to 
her  of  all  the  service  he  could  render  her ;  but  things  did  not 
fall  out  with  him  as  he  expected,  according  to  what  is  related 
in  the  course  of  this  veracious  history,  of  which  the  Second 
Part  ends  here. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

TN  WHICH  IS  RELATED  THE  UNFORTUXATE  ADVENTURE  THAT 
DON  QUIXOTE  FELL  IN  WITH  WHEN  HE  FELL  OUT  WITH 
CERTAIN    HEARTLESS    YANGUESANS. 

The  sage  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  relates  that  as  soon  as  Don 
Quixote  took  leave  of  his  hosts  and  all  who  had  been  present 
at  the  burial  of  Chrysostom,  he  and  his  squire  passed  into  the 
same  wood  which  they  haci  seen  the  shepherdess  Marcela  enter, 
and  after  having  wandered  for  more  than  two  hours  in  all  direc- 
tions in  search  of  her  without  finding  her,  they  came  to  a  halt 
in  a  glade  covered  with  tender  grass,  beside  which  ran  a  pleas- 
ant cool  stream  that  invited  and  even  compelled  them  to  pass 
there  the  hours  of  the  noontide  heat,  Avhich  by  this  time  was 
beginning  to  come  on  oppressively.  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho 
dismounted,  and  turning  Rocinante  and  the  ass  loose  to  feed  on 


CHAPTER    XV.  95 

the  pfrass  that  was  there  in  abvinclance,  they  ransacked  the 
alforjas,  and  without  any  ceremony  very  peacefully  and  soci- 
ably master  and  man  made  their  repast  on  what  they  found  in 
them.  Sancho  had  not  thought  it  worth  while  to  liol)l)le  Roci- 
nante,  feeling  sure,  from  what  he  knew  of  his  staidness  and 
freedom  from  incontinence,  that  all  the  mares  in  the  Cordova 
pastures  would  not  lead  him  into  an  impropriety.  Chance, 
however,  and  the  devil,  who  is  not  always  asleep,  so  ordained 
it  that  feeding  in  this  valley  there  was  a  drove  of  Galician 
ponies  belonging  to  certain  Yanguesan  ^  carriers,  whose  way  it 
is  to  take  their  midday  rest  with  their  teams  in  places  and 
spots  where  grass  and  water  abound ;  and  that  where  Don 
Quixote  chanced  to  be  suited  the  Yanguesans'  purpose  very 
well.  It  so  happened,  then,  that  Rocinante  took  a  fancy  to 
disport  himself  with  their  ladyships  the  ponies,  and  abandon- 
ing his  usual  gait  and  demeanor  as  he  scented  them,  he,  with- 
out asking  leave  of  his  master,  got  up  a  briskish  little  trot  and 
hastened  to  make  known  his  wishes  to  them ;  they,  however, 
it  seemed,  preferred  their  pasture  to  him,  and  received  him 
with  their  heels  and  teeth  to  such  effect  that  they  soon  broke 
his  girths  and  left  him  naked  without  a  saddle  to  cover  him ; 
but  what  must  have  been  worse  to  him  was  that  the  carriers, 
seeing  the  violence  he  was  offering  to  their  mares,  came  run- 
ning up  armed  with  stakes,-  and  so  belabored  him  that  they 
brought  him  sorely  battered  to  the  ground. 

By  this  time  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho,  who  had  witnessed 
the  drubbing  of  Eocinante,  came  up  panti^ig,  and  said  Don 
Quixote  to  Sancho,  "  So  far  as  I  can  see,  friend  Sancho,  these 
are  not  knights  but  base  folk  of  low  birth  :  I  mention  it  be- 
cause thou  canst  lawfully  aid  me  in  taking  due  vengeance  for 
the  insult  offered  to  Rocinante  before  our  eyes." 

"  What  the  devil  vengeance  can  we  take,"  answered  Sancho, 
"  if  they  are  more  than  twenty,  and  we  no  more  than  two,  or, 
indeed,  perha])S,  not  more  than  one  and  a  half  ?  " 

"  I  coiurt  for  a  hundred,"  re})lied  Don  Quixote,  and  with- 
out more  words  he  drew  his  sword  and  attacked  the  Yangue- 
sans, and  incited  and  impelled  by  the  example  of  his  master, 
Sancho  did  the  same  ;  and  to  begin  with,  Don  Quixote  deliv- 
ered a  slash  at  one  of  them  that  laid  open  the  leather  jerkin 

'  i.e.  of  Yanguas,  a  district  in  the  north  of  Uld  Castile,  near  Logroiio. 
*  Used  by  the  carriers  in  loading  their  beasts  to  prop  up  the  pack  on 
one  side  while  they  are  adjusting  the  balance  on  the  other. 


96  DON    QUIXOTE. 

he  wore,  together  with  a  great  portion  of  his  shoulder.  The 
Yanguesans,  seeing  themselves  assaulted  by  only  two  men 
while  they  were  so  many,  betook  themselves  to  their  stakes, 
and  driving  the  two  into  the  middle  they  began  to  lay  on  Avith 
great  zeal  and  energy  ;  in  fact,  at  the  second  blow  they  brought 
Sancho  to  the  ground,  and  Don  Quixote  fared  the  same  way,  all 
liis  skill  and  high  mettle  availing  him  nothing,  and  fate  willed 
it  that  he  should  fall  at  the  feet  of  Rocinante,  who  had  not  yet 
risen  ;  whereby  it  may  seem  how  furiously  stakes  can  pound 
in  angry  boorish  hands. ^  Then,  seeing  the  mischief  they  had 
done,  the  Yanguesans  with  all  the  haste  they  could  loaded 
their  team  and  pursued  their  journey,  leaving  the  two  adven- 
turers a  sorry  sight  and  in  sorrier  mood. 

Sancho  was  the  first  to  come  to,  and  finding  liimself  close 
to  his  master  he  called  to  him  in  a  weak  and  doleful  voice, 
"  Senor  Don  Quixote,  ah,  Senur  Don  Quixote  !  " 

"  What  wouldst  thou,  brother  Sancho  ?  "  answered  Don  Qui- 
xote in  the  same  feeble  suffering  tone  as  Sancho. 

"  I  would  like,  if  it  were  possible,"  answered  Sancho  Panza, 
"  your  worship  to  give  me  a  couple  of  sups  of  that  potion  of 
the  fiery  Bias,"  if  it  be  that  you  have  any  to  hand  there  ;  per- 
haps it  will  serve  for  broken  bones  as  well  as  for  wounds." 

''  If  I  only  had  it  here,  wretch  that  I  am,  what  more  should 
we  want  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  but  I  swear  to  thee,  Sancho 
Panza,  on  the  faith  of  a  knight-errant,  ere  two  days  are  over, 
unless  fortune  orders  otherwise,  I  mean  to  have  it  in  my  posses- 
sion, or  my  hand  will  have  lost  its  cunning." 

''  But  in  how  many  ways  does  your  Avorship  think  we  shall 
have  the  use  of  our  feet  ?  "  answered  Sancho  Panza. 

"  Por  myself  I  must  say  I  can  not  guess  how  many,"  said  the 
l)attered  knight  Don  Quixote  ;  "  but  I  take  all  the  blame  upon 
myself,  for  I  had  no  business  to  put  hand  to  sword  against 
men  who  were  not  dubbed  knights  like  myself,  and  so  I  be- 
lieve that  in  punishment  for  having  transgressed  the  laws  of 
chivalry  the  God  of  battles  has  permitted  this  cliastisenient 
to  be  administered  to  me ;  for  which  reason,  brother  Sancho, 
it  is  well  thou  shouldst  receive  a  hint  on  the  nuitter  which 
I  am  now  about  to  mention  to  thee,  for  it  is  of  much  impor- 
tance to  the  welfare  of  both  of  us.     It  is  that  Avhen  thou  shalt 

'  An  allusion  probably  to  the  story  of  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas,  "the 
pounder."     (  T^  chapter  viii.) 

^  Sancho's  blunder  in  the  name  of  Fierabras  is  droller  in  the  original,  as 
he  says,  del  feo  Blas^  "  of  the  ugly  Bias." 


CHAPTER    XV.  97 

see  rabble  of  this  sort  ottering  us  insult  thou  art  not  to  wait 
till  I  draw  sworcl  against  them,  for  I  shall  not  do  so  at  all  ;  but 
do  thou  draw  sword  and  chastise  them  to  thy  heart's  content, 
and  if  any  knights  come  to  their  aid  and  defence  I  will  take 
care  to  defend  thee  and  assail  them  with  all  my  might ;  and 
thou  hast  already  seen  by  a  thousand  signs  and  proofs  what  the 
might  of  this  strong  arm  of  mine  is  equal  to  "  —  so  uplifted 
had  the  poor  gentleman  become  through  the  victory  over  the 
stout  Biscayan. 

But  Sancho  did  not  so  fully  approve  of  his  master's  admoni- 
tion as  to  let  it  pass  withoiit  saying  in  reply,  "  Sefior,  I  am  a 
man  of  peace,  meek  and  quiet,  and  I  can  })ut  up  with  any 
affront  because  I  have  a  wife  and  children  to  su})port  and 
bring  up  ;  so  let  it  be  likewise  a  hint  to  your  worship,  as  it 
can  not  be  a  mandate,  that  on  no  account  will  T  draw  sword 
either  against  clown  or  against  knight,  and  that  here  before 
God  I  forgive  all  the  insults  that  have  been  offered  me  or  may 
be  offered  me,  whether  they  have  been,  are,  or  shall  be  offered 
me  by  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  noble  or  commoner,  not  ex- 
cepting any  rank  or  condition  whatsoever." 

To  all  which  his  master  said  in  reply,  "  I  wish  I  had  breath 
enough  to  s})eak  somewhat  easily,  and  that  the  pain  I  feel  on 
this  side  woidd  abate  so  as  to  let  me  explain  to  thee,  Panza, 
the  mistake  thou  niakest.  Come  now,  sinner,  suppose  the 
wind  of  fortime,  hitherto  so  adverse,  should  turn  in  our  favor, 
filling  the  sails  of  our  desires  so  that  safely  and  without  im- 
pediment we  put  into  port  in  some  one  of  those  islands  I  have 
promised  thee,  how  would  it  be  with  thee  if  on  winning  it 
I  made  thee  lord  of  it  ?  Why,  thou  wilt  make  it  well-nigh 
impossible  through  not  being  a  knight  nor  having  any  desire 
to  be  one,  nor  possessing  the  courage  nor  the  will  to  avenge 
insults  or  defend  thy  lordship ;  for  thou  must  know  that  in 
newly  conquered  kingdoms  and  provinces  the  minds  of  the 
iidiabitants  are  never  so  qiiiet  nor  so  well  disposed  to  the  new 
lord  that  there  is  no  fear  of  their  making  some  move  to  change 
matters  once  more,  and  try,  as  they  say,  what  chance  may  do 
for  them ;  so  it  is  essential  that  the  new  possessor  should  have 
good  sense  to  enable  him  to  govern,  and  valor  to  attack  and 
defend  himself,  whatever  may  befall  him." 

"  In  what  has  now  befallen  us,"  answered  Sancho,  '<  I  'd 
have  been  well  pleased  to  have  that  good  sense  and  that 
valor  your  worship  speaks  of,  but  swear  on  the  faith  of  a  poor 

Vol,  I.  -  7 


98  DON    QUIXOTE. 

man  I  am  more  fit  for  plasters  than  for  arguments.  See  if 
your  worship  can  get  up,  and  let  us  help  Eocinante,  though  he 
does  not  deserve  it,  for  he  was  the  main  cause  of  all  this 
thrashing.  I  never  thought  it  of  Eocinante,  for  I  took  him  to 
be  a  virtuous  person  and  as  quiet  as  myself.  After  all,  they 
say  right  that  it  takes  a  long  time  to  come  to  know  people, 
and  that  there  is  nothing  sure  in  this  life.  Who  would  have 
said  that,  after  such  mighty  slashes  as  your  worship  gave  that 
unlucky  knight-errant,  there  was  coming,  travelling  post  and 
at  the  very  heels  of  them,  such  a  great  storm  of  sticks  as  has 
fallen  upon  our  shoulders  ?  " 

"  And  yet  thine,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  ought  to 
be  used  to  such  squalls ;  but  mine,  reared  in  soft  cloth  and  line 
linen,  it  is  plain  they  must  feel  more  keenly  the  pain  of  this 
mishap,  and  if  it  were  not  that  I  imagine  —  why  do  I  say  im- 
agine ?  —  know  of  a  certainty  that  all  these  annoyances  are 
very  necessary  accompaniments  of  the  calling  of  arms,  I 
would  lay  me  down  here  to  die  of  pure  vexation." 

To  this  the  sqiure  re})lied,  "  Sefior,  as  these  mishaps  are  what 
one  reaps  of  chivalry,  tell  me  if  they  happen  very  often,  or 
if  they  have  their  own  fixed  times  for  coming  to  pass  ;  because 
it  seems  to  me  that  after  two  harvests  we  shall  be  no  good 
for  the  third,  unless  God  in  his  infinite  mercy  hel])S  us." 

"  Know,  friend  Sancho,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  "  that  the 
life  of  knights-errant  is  subject  to  a  thousand  dangers  and 
reverses,  and  neither  luore  nor  less  is  it  within  immediate 
possibility  for  knights-errant  to  become  kings  and  emperors, 
as  experience  luis  shown  in  the  case  of  many  different  knights 
with  whose  histories  I  am  thoroughly  acquainted ;  and  I  could 
tell  thee  now,  if  the  pain  woidd  let  me,  of  some  who  simply 
l)y  might  of  arm  have  risen  to  the  high  stations  I  have  men- 
tioned ;  and  those  same,  both  before  and  after,  experienced 
divers  misfortunes  and  miseries  ;  for  the  valiant  Amadis  of 
Gaul  foimd  himself  in  the  power  of  his  mortal  enemy  Ar- 
calans  the  magician,  who,  it  is  positively  asserted,  holding 
liim  captiA'e,  gave  him  more  than  two  hundred  lashes  with 
the  reins  of  his  horse  while  tied  to  one  of  the  pillars  of  a 
court ;  ^  and  moreover  there  is  a  certain  recondite  author  of 
no  small  authority  who  says  that  the  Knight  of  Phoebus, 
being  caught  in  a  certain  pitfall  which  opened  under  his 
feet  in  a  certain  castle,  on  falling  found  himself  bound  hand 

'  There  is  no  account  of  any  such  flogging  in  the  Amadis. 


CHAPTER    XV.  99 

and  foot  in  a  deep  pit  underground,  where  they  administered 
to  him  one  of  those  things  they  call  clysters,  of  sand  and 
snow-water,  that  well-nigh  finished  him;  and  if  he  had  not 
been  succored  in  that  sore  extremity  by  a  sage,  a  great 
friend  of  his,  it  would  have  gone  very  hard  with  the  poor 
knight ;  so  I  may  well  suffer  in  company  with  such  worthy 
folk,  for  greater  were  the  indignities  which  they  had  to 
suffer  than  those  which  we  suffer.  For  I  would  have  thee 
know,  Sancho,  that  wounds  caused  by  any  instruments  which 
happen  by  chance  to  be  in  hand  inflict  no  indignity,  and  this 
is  laid  down  in  the  law  of  the  duel  in  express  words :  if, 
for  instance,  the  cobliler  strikes  another  with  the  last  which 
he  has  in  his  hand,  though  it  be  in  fact  a  piece  of  wood,  it 
can  not  be  said  for  that  reason  that  he  whom  he  struck  with 
it  has  been  cudgelled.  I  say  this  lest  thou  shouldst  imag- 
ine that  because  we  have  been  drubbed  in  this  affray  we 
have  therefore  suffered  any  indignity ;  for  the  arms  those 
men  carried,  with  which  they  pounded  us,  Avere  nothing  more 
than  their  stakes,  and  not  one  of  them^  so  far  as  I  remember, 
carried  rapier,  sword,  or  dagger." 

"  They  gave  me  no  time  to  see  that  much,"  answered  Sancho, 
"  for  hardly  had  I  laid  hand  on  my  tizona  ^  when  they  signed 
the  cross  on  niy  shoulders  with  their  sticks  in  such  style  that 
they  took  the  sight  out  of  my  eyes  and  the  strength  out  of  my 
feet,  stretching  me  where  I  now  lie,  and  where  thinking  of 
whether  all  those  stake-strokes  Avere  an  indignity  or  not  givef^ 
me  no  uneasiness,  which  the  pain  of  the  blows  does,  for  they 
will  remain  as  deeply  impressed  on  my  memory  as  on  my 
shoulders." 

"  For  all  that  let  me  tell  thee,  brother  Panza,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  that  there  is  no  recollection  which  time  does  not  put 
an  end  to,  and  no  pain  which  death  does  not  remove." 

"  And  wdiat  greater  misfortune  can  there  be,"  replied  Panza, 
"  than  the  one  that  waits  for  time  to  put  an  end  to  it  and  death 
to  remove  it  ?  If  our  mishap  were  one  of  those  that  are  cured 
with  a  couple  of  plasters,  it  woidd  not  be  so  bad  ;  but  I  am 
beginning  to  think  that  all  the  plasters  in  a  hospital  almost 
won't  be  enough  to  put  us  right." 

"  No  more  of  that :  pluck  strength  out  of  weakness,  Sancho, 
as  I  mean  to  do,"  returned  Don  Quixote,  "  and  let  us  see  how 

'  Tizon  was  the  name  of  one  of  tlie  Cid's  two  famous  swords ;  the  word 
was  altered  into  Tizona  to  suit  the  trochaic  rhythm  of  the  balhids.  It 
means  simply  "brand." 


100  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Rociiiante  is,  for  it  seems  to  me  that  not  the  least  share  of  this 
mishap  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  the  poor  beast." 

"  There  is  nothing  wonderful  in  that,"  replied  Sancho, 
"  since  he  is  a  knight-errant  too  ;  what  I  wonder  at  is  that  my 
beast  shonld  have  come  off  scot-free  where  we  come  out 
scotched."  ^ 

"  Fortune  always  leaves  a  door  open  in  adversity  in  order  to 
bring  relief  to  it,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  I  say  so  because  this 
little  beast  may  now  supply  the  Avant  of  Rocinante,  carrying 
me  hence  to  some  castle  where  I  may  be  cured  of  my  wounds. 
And  moreover  I  shall  not  hold  it  any  dishonor  to  be  so  mounted, 
for  I  remember  having  read  how  the  good  old  Silenus,  the  tutor 
and  instructor  of  the  gay  god  of  laughter,  when  he  entered  the 
city  of  the  hundred  gates,^  went  very  contentedly  mounted  on 
a  handsome  ass." 

"  It  may  be  true  that  he  went  mounted  as  your  woi-ship  says," 
answered  Sancho,  "  but  there  is  a  great  difference  between 
going  mounted  and  going  slung  like  a  sack  of  manure."  ^ 

To  Avhich  Don  Quixote  replied,  "  Wounds  received  in  battle 
confer  honor  instead  of  taking  it  away ;  and  so,  friend  Panza, 
say  no  more,  Imt,  as  I  told  thee  before,  get  up  as  well  as  thou 
canst  and  put  me  on  top  of  thy  beast  in  whatever  fashion 
pleases  thee  best,  and  let  us  go  hence  ere  night  come  on  and 
surprise  us  in  these  wilds." 

"  And  yet  I  have  heard  your  worship  say,"  observed  Panza, 
"  that  it  is  very  meet  for  knights-errant  to  sleep  in  wastes  and 
deserts  the  best  part  of  the  year,  and  that  they  esteem  it  very 
good  fortune." 

"  That  is,"  said  Don  Quixote,  <'  when  they  can  not  help  it, 
or  when  they  are  in  love ;  and  so  triie  is  this  that  there  have 
been  knights  avIio  have  remained  two  years  on  rocks,  in  sun- 

'  In  this  characteristic  comment  of  Sancho's.  Ilartzcnbuscli  corrects 
caballero  andante  —  "  knight-errant "  — into  cabaUeria  andante  —  "  horse- 
errant  "  (entirely  overlooking  the  tambien  —  "too"),  and  with  profound 
gravity  reminds  ns  that  Rocinante  is  a  horse.  Mr.  J.  P.  Collier's  "old 
corrector"  in  the  1()32  folio  Shakesjieare  could  hardly  do  worse  tlian  this. 
The  l>lay  upon  the  words  siji  castas  and  sin  costillas  cannot  be  rendered 
literally  ;  sin  costillas —  "  without  ribs  "  —  means  also  in  popular  parlance 
bankrupt,  "  cleaned  out." 

*  Thebes ;  but  that  of  the  hundred  gates  was  the  Egyptian,  not  the 
Boeotian  Thebes,  which  is  the  one  here  referred  to. 

^  The  grave  drollery  of  Sancho's  matter-of-fact  reply  is  lost  in  transla- 
tion, inasmuch  as  in  Spanish  "to  go  mounted"  —  ir  caballero  —  implies 
also  "  to  go  like  a  gentleman." 


<^%..^ 

rk  ^::i 


DON   QUIXOTE  WOUNDED.      Vol.  I.      Page  101. 


CHAPTER    XV.  101 

shine  and  shade  and  all  the  inclemencies  of  heaven,  without 
their  ladies  knowing  anything  of  it ;  and  one  of  these  avus 
Aniadis  when,  under  the  name  of  Beltenebros,  he  took  up  his 
abode  on  the  Pefla  Pobre  for  —  I  know  not  if  it  was  eiuht 
years  or  eight  months,  for  I  am  not  very  sure  of  the  reckon- 
ing ;  at  any  rate  he  stayed  there  doing  penance  for  I  know  not 
what  pique  the  Princess  Oriana  had  against  him  ;  Init  no  more 
of  this  now,  Sancho,  and  make  haste  before  some  other  mishap 
like  Rocinante's  befalls  the  ass." 

"  The  very  devil  would  be  in  it  in  that  case,"  said  Sancho ; 
and  letting  off  thirty  "  ohs,"  and  sixty  sighs,  and  a  hundred 
and  twenty  maledictions  and  execrations  on  whomsoever  it 
was  that  had  brought  him  there,  he  raised  himself,  stopping- 
half-way  bent  like  a  Turkish  bow  without  power  to  bring  him- 
self upright,  but  with  all  his  pains  he  saddled  his  ass,  who  too 
had  gone  astray  somewhat,  yielding  to  the  excessive  license  of 
the  day ;  he  next  raised  up  Rocinante,  and  as  for  him,  had  he 
possessed  a  tongue  to  complain  Avith,  most  assuredly  neither 
Sancho  nor  his  master  would  have  been  behind  him.^  To  be 
brief,  Sancho  fixed  Don  Quixote  on  the  ass  and  secured  Poci- 
nante  with  a  leading  rein,  and  taking  tlie  ass  by  the  halter,  he 
proceeded  more  or  less  in  the  direction  in  which  it  seemed  to 
him  the  high  road  might  be ;  and,  as  chance  was  conducting 
their  affairs  for  them  from  good  to  better,  he  had  not  gone  a 
short  league  when  the  road  came  in  sight,  and  on  it  he  per- 
ceived an  inn,  which  to  his  annoyance  and  to  the  delight  of 
Don  Quixote  must  needs  be  a  castle.  Sancho  insisted  that  it 
was  an  inn,  and  his  master  that  it  was  not  one,  but  a  castle, 
and  the  dispute  lasted  so  long  that  before  the  point  Avas  settletl 
they  had  time  to  reach  it,  and  into  it  Sancho  entered  Avith  all 
his  team,'^  Avithout  any  further  controversy. 

'  This  is  another  example  of  tlie  loose  construction  and  confusion  into 
which  Cervantes  fell  at  times.  Of  course  he  meant  to  say  that  Rocinante 
wonlil  not  have  been  behind  them  in  complaining. 

^  The  entrance  of  a  Spanish  venia  ov  posada  is  almost  always  a  wide 
gateway  through  which  both  man  and  beast  enter  to  their  respective 
quarters.  The  high  road — camino  real  —  was  the  Madrid  and  Seville 
road,  and  on  it,  or  some  little  distance  one  side  or  the  other  of  it,  all  the 
adventures  of  the  First  Part  are  supposed  to  take  place.  From  its  dis- 
tance from  tlie  Sierra  Morcna  this  venta  would  be  somewhere  near  Val- 
depeiias,  in  the  great  wine-growing  district.  The  scene  of  the  release  of 
the  galley  slaves  in  chapter  xxii.  would  be  near  Almuradiel.      (  V.  map.) 


102  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

OF    WHAT     HAPPENED    TO     THE    INGENIOUS     GENTLEMAN    IN 
THE    INN    WHICH    HE    TOOK    TO    BE    A    CASTLE. 

The  innkeeper,  seeing  Don  Quixote  slung  across  the  ass, 
asked  Sanclio  wliat  was  amiss  with  hiiu.  Sancho  answered 
that  it  was  nothing,  only  that  he  had  fallen  down  from  a  rock 
and  had  his  ribs  a  little  bruised.  The  iunkeeper  had  a  wife 
whose  disposition  was  not  such  as  those  of  her  calling  com- 
monly have,  for  she  was  by  nature  kiud-hearted  and  felt  for 
the  sufferings  of  her  neighbors,  so  she  at  once  set  about  tend- 
ing Don  Quixote,  and  made  her  young  daughter,  a  very  comely 
girl,  help  her  in  taking  care  of  her  guest.  There  was  besides 
in  the  inn,  as  servant,  an  Asturian  lass  with  a  broad  face,  flat 
poll,  and  snub  nose,  blind  of  one  eye  and  not  very  sound  in 
the  other.  The  elegance  of  her  shape,  to  be  sure,  made  up  for 
all  her  defects ;  she  did  not  measure  seven  palms  from  head  to 
foot,  and  her  shoulders,  which  over-weighted  her  somewhat, 
made  her  conteuiplate  the  ground  more  than  she  liked.  This 
graceful  lass,  then,  heljjed  the  young  girl,  and  the  two  made 
up  a  very  bad  bed  for  Don  Quixote  in  a  garret  that  showed 
evident  signs  of  having  formerly  served  for  many  years  as  a 
straw-loft,  in  which  there  was  also  quartered  a  carrier  whose 
bed  was  placed  a  little  beyond  our  Don  Quixote's,  and,  though 
only  made  of  the  pack-saddles  and  cloths  of  his  mules,  had  much 
the  advantage  of  it,  as  Don  Quixote's  consisted  simply  of  four 
rough  boards  on  two  not  very  even  trestles,  a  mattress,  that  for 
thinness  might  have  passed  for  a  quilt,  full  of  pellets,  which, 
were  they  not  seen  through  the  rents  to  be  wool,  would  to  the 
touch  have  seemed  pebbles  in  hardness,  two  sheets  made  of 
buckler  leather,  and  a  coverlet  the  threads  of  which  any  one 
that  chose  might  have  counted  without  missing  one  in  the 
reckoning. 

On  this  accursed  bed  Don  Quixote  stretched  himself,  and  the 
hostess  and  her  daughter  soon  covered  him  with  plasters  from 
top  to  toe,  while  Maritornes  —  for  that  was  the  name  of  the 
Asturian  —  held  the  light  for  them,  and  while  plastering  him, 
the  hostess,  observing  how  full  of  Avheals  Don  Quixote  was  in 
some  places,  remarked  that  this  had  more  the  look  of  blows 
than  of  a  fall. 


CHAPTER    XVI.  103 

It  was  not  blows,  Sancho  said,  but  that  the  rock  liad  many 
points  and  projections,  and  that  each  of  them  had  left  its 
mark.  ''  Pray,  senora,"  he  added,  "  manage  to  save  soine  tow, 
as  there  will  be  no  want  of  some  one  to  use  it,  for  my  loins  too 
are  rather  sore." 

"  Then  you  must  have  fallen  too,"  said  the  hostess. 

"  I  did  not  fall,"  said  Sancho  Panza,  "  but  from  the  shock  I 
got  at  seeing  my  master  fall,  my  body  aches  so  that  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  had  a  thousand  thwacks." 

"  That  may  well  be,"  said  the  young  girl,  "  for  it  has  many 
a  time  happened  to  me  to  dream  that  1  was  falling  down  from 
a  tower  and  never  coming  to  the  ground,  and  when  I  awoke 
from  the  dream  to  find  myself  as  weak  and  shaken  as  if  I  had 
really  fallen." 

"  There  is  the  point,  seiiora,"  replied  Sancho  Panza,  "■  that 
I  without  dreaming  at  all,  but  being  more  awake  than  I  am 
now,  find  myself  with  scarcely  less  wheals  than  my  master,  Don 
Quixote." 

"  How  is  the  gentleman  called  ?  "  asked  Maritornes  the 
Asturian. 

"  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,"  answered  Sancho  Panza, 
"  and  he  is  a  knight-adventurer,  and  one  of  the  best  and 
stoutest  that  have  been  seen  in  the  world  this  long  time 
past." 

"  What  is  a  knight-adventurer  ?  "  said  the  lass. 

"  Are  you  so  new  in  the  world  as  not  to  know  ?  "  answered 
Sancho  Panza.  <^  Well,  then,  you  must  know,  sister,  that  a 
knight-adventurer  is  a  thing  that  in  two  words  is  seen  drubbed 
and  emperor,  that  is  to-day  the  most  miserable  and  needy 
being  in  the  world,  and  to-morrow  will  have  two  or  three 
crowns  of  kingdoms  to  give  his  squire." 

"  Then  how  is  it,"  said  the  hostess,  "  that,  belonging  to  so 
good  a  master  as  this,  you  have  not,  to  judge  by  appearances, 
even  so  much  as  a  county  ?  " 

"  It  is  too  soon  yet,"  answered  Sancho,  "  for  Ave  have  only 
been  a  month  going  in  quest  of  adventures,  and  so  far  we 
have  met  with  nothing  that  can  be  called  one,  for  it  will 
happen  that  when  one  thing  is  looked  for  another  thing  is 
found ;  however,  if  my  master  Don  Quixote  gets  well  of  this 
wound,  or  fall,  and  I  am  left  none  the  worse  of  it,  I  would 
not  change  nxy  hopes  for  the  best  title  in  Spain." 

To   all   this   conversation   Don  Quixote  was   listening  very 


104  DON    QUIXOTE. 

attentively,  and  sitting  up  in  bed  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
taking  the  hostess  by  the  hand  he  said  to  her,  "  Believe  me, 
fair  lady,  you  may  call  yourself  fortunate  in  having  in  this 
castle  of  yours  sheltered  my  person,  which  is  such  that  it  I  do 
not  myself  praise  it,  it  is  because  of  what  is  commonly  said, 
that  self-praise  debaseth  ;  ^  but  my  squire  Avill  inform  you 
who  I  am.  I  only  tell  you  that  I  shall  preserve  for  ever  in- 
scribed on  my  memory  the  service  you  have  rendered  me  in 
order  to  tender  you  my  gratitude  while  life  shall  last  me  ;  and 
would  to  Heaven  love  held  me  not  so  enthralled  and  subject 
to  its  laws  and  to  the  eyes  of  that  fair  ingrate  whom  I  name 
between  my  teeth,  but  that  those  of  this  lovely  damsel  might 
be  the  masters  of  my  liberty."' 

The  hostess,  her  daughter,  and  the  worthy  Maritornes 
listened  in  bewilderment  to  the  words  of  the  knight-errant, 
for  they  understood  about  as  nuu'h  of  them  as  if  he  had  been 
talking  Greek,  though  they  could  perceive  they  were  all  meant 
for  expressions  of  good-will  and  blandishments  ;  and  not  being 
accustomed  to  this  kind  of  language,  they  stared  at  him  and 
wondered  to  themselves,  for  he  seemed  to  them  a  man  of  a 
different  sort  from  those  they  were  used  to,  and  thanking  him 
in  pot-house  phrase  for  his  civility  they  left  him,  while  the 
Asturian  gave  her  attention  to  Sancho,  who  needed  it  no  less 
than  his  master. 

The  carrier  had  made  an  arrangement  with  her  for  recreation 
that  uight,  and  she  had  given  him  her  word  that  when  the 
giiests  were  quiet  and  the  family  asleep  she  would  come  in 
search  of  him  and  meet  his  wishes  unreservedly.  And  it  is 
said  of  this  good  lass  that  she  never  made  promises  of  the  kind 
without  fulfilling  them,  even  though  she  made  them  in  a  forest 
and  without  any  witness  present,  for  she  plumed  herself  greatly 
on  being  a  lady,  and  held  it  no  disgrace  to  be  in  such  an  em- 
ployment as  servant  in  an  inn,  because,  she  said,  misfortunes 
and  ill-luck  had  brought  her  to  that  position.  The  hard,  nar- 
row, wretched,  rickety  bed  of  Don  Quixote  stood  first  in  the 
middle  of  this  star-lit  stable,'^  and  close  beside  it  Sancho  made 
his,  Avhich  merely  consisted  of  a  rush  inat  and  a  blanket  that 
looked  as  if  it  was  of  threadbare  canvas,  rather  than  of  wool. 
iSText  to  these  two  beds  Avas  that  of  the  carrier,  made  up,  as 

•  Prov.  6. 

^  Estrellado  seems  to  have  puzzled  most  of  the  translators.  Shelton 
omits  it,  and  Jervas  renders  it  "illustrious." 


CHAPTER    XVI.  105 

has  been  said,  of  the  pack-saddles  and  all  the  trappings  of  the 
two  best  mules  he  had,  though  there  were  twelve  of  them, 
sleek,  plump,  and  in  prime  condition,  for  he  was  one  of  the 
rich  carriers  of  Arevalo,  according  to  the  author  of  this  history, 
who  particularly  mentions  this  carrier  because  he  knew  him 
very  well,  and  they  even  say  was  in  some  degree  a  relation  of 
his ;  ^  besides  which  Cid  Hamet  Benengeli  was  a  historian  of 
great  research  and  accuracy  in  all  things,  as  is  very  evident 
since  he  would  not  pass  over  in  silence  those  that  have  been 
already  mentioned,  however  trifling  and  insignificant  they 
might  be,  an  example  that  might  be  followed  by  those  grave 
historians  who  relate  transactions  so  curtly  and  briefly  that  we 
hardly  get  a  taste  of  them,  all  the  substance  of  the  work  being 
left  in  the  ink-bottle  from  carelessness,  perverseness,  or  igno- 
rance. A  thoiisand  blessings  on  the  author  of  "  Tablante  de 
Ricamonte,"  and  that  of  the  other  book  in  which  the  deeds  of 
the  Conde  Tomillas  are  recounted  ;  with  what  minuteness  they 
describe  everything !  ^ 

To  proceed,  then  :  after  having  paid  a  visit  to  his  team  and 
given  them  their  second  feed,  the  carrier  stretched  himself  on 
his  pack-saddles  and  lay  waiting  for  his  conscientious  Mari- 
tornes.  Sancho  was  by  this  time  plastered  and  had  lain  down, 
and  though  he  strove  to  sleep  the  pain  of  his  ribs  would  not  let 
him,  while  Don  Quixote  with  the  pain  of  his,  had  his  eyes  as 
wide  open  as  a  hare's.  The  inn  was  all  in  silence,  and  in  the 
whole  of  it  there  was  no  light  except  that  given  by  a  lantern 
that  hung  burning  in  the  middle  of  the  gateway.  This  strange 
stillness,  and  the  thoughts,  always  present  to  our  knight's 
mind,  of  the  incidents  described  at  every  turn  in  the  books  that 
were  the  cause  of  his  misfortune,  conjured  up  to  his  imagina- 
tion as  extraordinary  a  delusion  as  can  well  be  conceived, 
which  was  that  he  fancied  himself  to  have  reached  a  famous 
castle  (for,  as  has  been  said,  all  the  inns  he  lodged  in  were 
castles  to  his  eyes),  and  that  the  daughter  of  the  innkeeper 
was  daughter  of  the  lord  of  the  castle,  and  that  she,  won  by  his 
high-bred  bearing,  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  had  prom- 

'  The  carrier  business,  Pellicer  points  out,  was  extensively  followed  by 
the  Moriscoes,  as  it  afforded  them  an  excuse  for  absenting  themselves 
from  Mass. 

^  Cronica  de  Tablante  de  Ricamonte^  a  romance  of  uncertain  date  and 
origin,  based  upon  the  Arthurian  legend.  The  Conde  Tomillas  was  a 
personage  at  the  Court  of  Charlemagne  mentioned  in  the  Montesinos 
ballads,  but  no  book  of  his  deeds  is  known. 


106  DON    QUIXOTE. 

isecl  to  come  to  his  bed  for  awhile  that  night  without  the 
knowledge  of  her  parents  ;  and  holding  as  solid  fact  all  this 
fantasy  that  he  had  constructed,  he  began  to  feel  uneasy  and  to 
consider  the  perilous  risk  which  his  virtue  was  about  to  en- 
counter, and  he  resolved  in  his  heart  to  commit  no  treason  to 
his  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  even  though  the  queen  Guine- 
vere herself  and  the  dame  Quintaiiona  should  present  them- 
selves before  him. 

While  he  was  taken  up  with  these  vagaries,  then,  the  time 
and  the  hour  —  an  unlucky  one  for  him  —  arrived  for  the 
Asturian  to  come,  who  in  her  smock,  with  bare  feet  and  her 
hair  gathered  into  a  fustian  coif,  with  noiseless  and  cautious 
steps  entered  the  chamber  where  the  three  were  quartered,  in 
quest  of  the  carrier  ;  but  scarcely  had  she  gained  the  door 
when  Don  Quixote  perceived  her,  and  sitting  up  in  his  bed  in 
spite  of  his  plasters  and  the  pain  of  his  ribs,  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  to  receive  his  beauteous  damsel.  The  Asturian,  who 
went  all  doubled  up  and  in  silence  with  her  hands  before  her 
feeling  for  her  lover,  encountered  the  arms  of -Don  Quixote, 
who  grasped  her  tightly  by  the  wrist,  and  drawing  her  towards 
him,  while  she  dared  not  utter  a  word,  made  her  sit  down  on 
the  bed.  He  then  felt  her  smock,  and  although  it  was  of  sack- 
cloth it  appeared  to  him  to  be  of  the  finest  and  softest  silk  :  on 
lier  wrists  she  wore  some  glass  beads,  but  to  him  they  had  the 
sheen  of  precious  Orient  pearls  :  her  hair,  which  in  some  meas- 
ure resembled  a  horse's  mane,  he  rated  as  threads  of  the 
brightest  gold  of  Araby,  whose  refulgence  dimmed  the  sun 
himself  :  her  breath,  which  no  doubt  smelt  of  yesterday's  stale 
salad,  seemed  to  him  to  diffuse  a  sweet  aromatic  fragrance  from 
her  mouth  ;  and,  in  short,  he  drew  her  portrait  in  his  imagina- 
tion with  the  same  features  and  in  the  same  style  as  that  which 
he  had  seen  in  his  books  of  the  other  princess  who,  smitten  by 
love,  came  with  all  the  adornments  that  are  here  set  down,  to 
see  the  sorely  wounded  knight ;  and  so  great  was  the  poor 
gentleman's  blindness  that  neither  touch,  nor  smell,  nor  any- 
thing else  about  the  good  lass  that  would  have  made  any  but  a 
carrier  vomit,  were  enough  to  undeceive  him  ;  on  the  contrary, 
he  was  persuaded  he  had  the  goddess  of  beaiity  in  his  arms, 
and  holding  her  firmly  in  his  grasp  he  went  on  to  say  in  a  low, 
tender  voice,  "  Would  that  I  found  myself,  lovely  and  exalted 
lady,  in  a  position  to  repay  such  a  favor  as  that  which  you,  by 
the  sight  of  your  great  beauty,  have  granted  me  ;  but  fortune, 


CHAPTER    XVL  107 

which  is  never  weary  of  persecuting  the  good,  has  chosen  to 
place  me  upon  this  bed,  where  I  lie  so  bruised  and  broken  that 
though  my  inclination  would  gladly  comply  with  yours  it  is  im- 
possible ;  besides,  to  this  impossibility  another  yet  greater  is  to 
be  added,  which  is  the  faith  that  I  have  pledged  to  the  peer- 
less Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  sole  lady  of  my  most  secret  thoughts  ; 
and  M^ere  it  not  that  this  stood  in  the  way  I  should  not  be  so 
insensible  a  knight  as  to  miss  the  happy  opportunity  which 
your  great  goodness  has  offered  me.*' 

Maritornes  was  fretting  and  sweating  at  furding  herself  held 
so  fast  by  Don  Quixote,  and  not  understanding  or  heeding  the 
words  he  addressed  to  her,  she  strove  without  speaking  to  free 
herself.  The  worthy  carrier,  whose  unholy  thoughts  kept  him 
awake,  was  aware  of  his  doxy  the  moment  she  entered  the  door, 
and  was  listening  attentively  to  all  Don  Quixote  said  ;  and 
jealous  that  the  Asturian  should  have  broken  her  word  with 
him  for  another,  drew  nearer  to  Don  Quixote's  bed  and  stood 
still  to  see  what  would  come  of  this  talk  which  he  could  not 
understand  ;  but  when  he  perceived  the  wench  struggling  to 
get  free  and  Don  Quixote  striving  to  hold  her,  not  relishing  the 
joke  he  raised  his  arm  and  delivered  such  a  terrible  cuff  on  the 
lank  jaws  of  the  amorous  knight  that  he  bathed  all  his  mouth 
in  blood,  and  not  content  with  this  he  mounted  on  his  ribs  and 
with  his  feet  tramped  all  over  them  at  a  pace  rather  smarter 
than  a  trot.  The  bed,  Avhich  was  somewhat  crazy  and  not  very 
firm  on  its  feet,  unable  to  bear  the  additional  weight  of  the 
carrier,  came  to  the  ground,  and  at  the  mighty  crash  of  this 
the  innkeeper  awoke  and  at  once  concluded  that  it  must  be 
some  brawl  of  Maritornes',  because  after  calling  loudly  to  her 
he  got  no  answer.  With  this  suspicion  he  got  up,  and  light- 
ing a  lamp  hastened  to  the  quarter  where  he  had  heard  the 
disturbance.  The  wench,  seeing  that  her  master  was  coming 
and  knowing  that  his  temper  was  terrible,  frightened  and  panic- 
stricken  made  for  the  bed  of  Sancho  Panza,  who  still  slept,^ 
and  crouching  upon  it  made  a  ball  of  herself. 

The  innkeeper  came  in  exclaiming,  "  Where  art  thou,  strum- 
pet ?  Of  course  this  is  some  of  thy  work."  At  this  Sancho 
awoke,  and  feeling  this  mass  almost  on  top  of  him  fancied  he 
had  the  nightmare  and  began  to  distribute  fisticuffs  all  round, 
of  which  a  certain  share  fell  upon  Maritornes,  who,  irritated 
by  the  pain  and  flinging  modesty  aside,  paid  back  so  many  in 

'  We  were  told  just  before  that  Sancho  was  unable  to  sleep. 


108  DON    QUIXOTE. 

return  to  Sanelio  that  she  woke  him  up  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  then,  finding  himself  so  handled,  by  whom  he  knew  not, 
raising  himself  up  as  well  as  he  could,  grappled  with  Mari- 
tornes,  and  he  and  she  between  them  began  the  bitterest  and 
drollest  scrimmage  in  the  world.  The  carrier,  however,  per- 
ceiving by  the  light  of  the  innkeeper's  candle  how  it  fared 
with  his  lady-love,  quitting  Don  Quixote,  ran  to  bring  her  the 
help  she  needed  ;  and  the  innkeeper  did  the  same  but  with  a 
different  intention,  for  his  was  to  chastise  the  lass,  as  he 
believed  that  beyond  a  doubt  she  alone  was  the  cause  of 
all  the  harmony.  And  so,  as  the  saying  is,  cat  to  rat, 
rat  to  rope,  rope  to  stick,  the  carrier  pounded  kSancho,  Sancho 
the  lass,  she  him,  and  the  innkeeper  her,  and  all  worked  away 
so  briskly  that  they  did  not  give  themselves  a  moment's  rest ; 
and  the  best  of  it  was  that  the  innkeeper's  lamp  went  out,  and 
as  they  were  left  in  the  dark  they  all  laid  on  one  upon  the 
other  in  a  mass  so  unmercifully  that  there  was  not  a  sound  spot 
left  where  a  hand  could  light. 

It  so  happened  that  there  was  lodging  that  night  in  the  inn 
an  officer  of  what  they  call  the  Old  Holy  Brotherhood  of 
Toledo,  who,  also  hearing  the  extraordinary  noise  of  the  con- 
flict, seized  his  staff  and  the  tin  case  with  his  warrants,  and 
made  his  way  in  the  dark  into  the  room  crying,  <'  Hold  !  in 
the  name  of  this  Jurisdiction  !  Hold  !  in  the  name  of  the  Holy 
Brotherhood  !  "  The  first  that  he  came  upon  was  the  pum- 
melled Don  Quixote,  who  lay  stretched  senseless  on  his  back 
upon  his  broken-down  bed,  and,  his  hand  falling  on  the  l:)eard 
as  he  felt  about,  he  continued  to  cry,  "  Help  for  the  Juris- 
diction !  "  but  perceiving  that  he  whom  he  had  laid  hold 
of  did  not  move  or  stir,  he  concluded  that  he  was  dead  and 
that  those  in  the  room  were  his  murderers,  and  with  this  sus- 
picion he  raised  his  voice  still  higher,  calling  out,  "  Shut  the 
inn  gate  ;  see  that  no  one  goes  out ;  they  have  killed  a  man 
here  ! "  This  cry  startled  them  all,  and  each  dropped  the  con- 
test at  the  point  at  which  the  voice  reached  him.  The  inn- 
keeper retreated  to  his  room,  the  carrier  to  his  pack-saddles, 
the  lass  to  her  crib;  the  unlucky  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho 
alone  were  unable  to  move  from  where  they  were.  The  officer 
on  this  let  go  Don  Quixote's  beard,  and  went  out  to  look  for  a 
light  to  search  for  and  apprehend  the  culprits  ;  but  not  find- 
ing one,  as  the  innkeeper  had  purposely  extinguished  the  lan- 
tern   on  retreating   to  his  room,  he  was   compelled   to  have 


CHAPTER    XVTI.  109 

recourse  to  the  hearth,  where  after  much  time  and  trouble  he 
lit  another  lamp. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

IN  WHICH  ABE  CONTAINED  THE  INNUMERABLE  TROUBLES 
WHICH  THE  BRAVE  DON  QUIXOTE  AND  HIS  GOOD  SQUIRE 
SANCHO  PANZA  ENDURED  IN  THE  INN,  WHICH  TO  HIS  MIS- 
FORTUNE   HE    TOOK    TO    BE    A    CASTLE. 

By  this  time  Don  Quixote  had  recovered  from  his  swoon ; 
and  in  the  same  tone  of  voice  in  which  he  had  called  to  his 
squire  the  daj^  before  when  he  lay  stretched  "  in  the  vale  of 
the  stakes,"  ^  he  began  calling  to  him  now,  "  Sanclio,  my 
friend,  art  thou  asleep  ?  sleepest  thou,  friend  Sancho  ? " 

"  How  can  I  sleep,  curses  on  it !  "  returned  Sancho  discon- 
tentedly and  bitterly,  "  when  it  is  plain  that  all  the  devils 
have  been  at  me  this  night  ?  " 

"  Thou  niayest  well  believe  that,"  answered  Don  Quixote, 
"  because,  either  I  know  little,  or  this  castle  is  enchanted,  for 
thou  must  know  —  but  this  that  I  am  now  about  to  tell  thee 
thou  must  swear  to  keep  secret  until  after  my  death." 

"  I  swear  it,"  answered  Sancho. 

"  I  say  so,"  continued  Don  Quixote,  "  because  I  hate  taking 
away  any  one's  good  name." 

"  I  say,"  repeated  Sancho,  "  that  I  swear  to  hold  my  tongue 
about  it  till  the  end  of  your  worship's  days,  and  God  grant  1 
may  be  able  to  let  it  out  to-morrow." 

"  Do  I  do  thee  such  injuries,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  that  thou  wouldst  see  me  dead  so  soon  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  that,"  replied  Sancho,  •'  but  because  I  hate 
keeping  things  long,  and  I  don't  want  them  to  grow  rotten 
with  me  from  over-keeping." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  I  have  more  confidence 
in  thy  affection  and  good  nature  ;  and  so  I  would  have  thee 
know  that  this  night  there  befell  me  one  of  the  strangest  ad- 
ventures that  I  could  describe,  and  to  relate  it  to  thee  briefly 
thou  must  know  that  a  little  while  ago  the  daughter  of  the 
lord  of  this  castle  came  to  me,  and  that  she  is  the  most  ele- 

iThe  words  quoted  are  the  beginning  of  one  of  the  Cid  ballads,  "For  el 
val  lie  las  estacas." 


110  DON    QUIXOTE. 

gant  and  beautiful  damsel  that  could  be  found  in  the  wide 
world.  What  I  could  tell  thee  of  the  charms  of  her  person ! 
of  her  lively  wit !  of  other  secret  matters  which,  to  preserve 
the  fealty  I  owe  to  my  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  I  shall  pass 
over  unnoticed  and  in  silence !  I  will  only  tell  thee  that, 
either  fate  being  envious  of  so  great  a  boon  placed  in  my 
hands  by  good  fortune,  or  perhaps  (and  this  is  more  probable) 
this  castle  being,  as  I  have  already  said,  enchanted,  at  the 
time  when  I  was  engaged  in  the  sweetest  and  most  aniorous 
discourse  with  her,  there  came,  without  my  seeing  or  knowing 
whence  it  came,  a  hand  attached  to  some  arm  of  some  huge 
giant,  that  planted  such  a  cuff  on  my  jaws  that  I  have  them 
all  bathed  in  blood,  and  then  pummelled  me  in  such  a  way 
that  I  am  in  a  worse  plight  than  yesterday  when  the  carriers, 
on  account  of  Kocinante's  misbehavior,  inflicted  on  us  the  in- 
jury thou  knowest  of ;  whence  I  conjecture  that  there  must  be 
some  enchanted  Moor  guarding  the  treasure  of  this  damsel's 
beauty,  and  that  it  is  not  for  me." 

"  Nor  for  me  either,"  said  Sancho,  ''  for  more  than  four  hun- 
dred Moors  have  so  thrashed  me  that  the  drubbing  of  the 
stakes  was  cakes  and  fancy-bread  to  it.  But  tell  me,  senor, 
what  did  you  call  this  excellent  and  rare  adventure  that  has 
left  us  as  we  are  left  now  ?  Though  your  worship  was  not  so 
badly  off,  having  in  your  arms  that  incomparable  beauty  you 
spoke  of ;  but  I,  what  did  I  have,  except  the  heaviest  whacks 
I  think  I  had  in  all  my  life  ?  Unlucky  me  and  the  mother  that 
bore  me !  for  I  am  not  a  knight-errant  and  never  expect  to 
be  one,  and  of  all  the  mishaps,  the  greater  part  falls  to  my 
share." 

"  Then  thou  hast  been  thrashed  too  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

''  Did  n't  I  say  so  ?  worse  luck  to  my  line  !  "  said  Sancho. 

"  Be  not  distressed,  friend,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''  for  I  will 
now  make  the  precious  balsam  with  which  we  shall  cure  our- 
selves in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye." 

By  this  time  the  oflficer  had  succeeded  in  lighting  the  lamp, 
and  came  in  to  see  the  man  that  he  thought  had  been  killed ; 
and  as  Sancho  caught  sight  of  him  at  the  door,  seeing  him 
coming  in  his  shirt,  with  a  cloth  on  his  head,  and  a  lamp  in 
his  hand,  and  a  very  forbidding  coimtenance,  he  said  to  his 
master,  "  Senor,  can  it  be  that  this  is  the  enchanted  Moor  com- 
ing back  to  give  us  more  castigation  if  there  be  anything  still 
left  in  the  ink-bottle  ?  " 


CHAPTER    XVI I.  Ill 

"  It  can  not  ]jp  the  Moor,"  answered.  Don  Quixote,  "■  for  those 
under  enchantment  do  not  let  themselves  be  seen  by  any  one." 

"  If  they  don't  let  themselves  be  seen,  they  let  themselves 
be  felt,"  said  Sancho  ;  ^'  if  not,  let  my  shoulders  speak  to  the 
point." 

"  Mine  could,  speak  too,"  said  Don  Quixote,  '^  but  that  is  not 
a  sufficient  reason  for  believing  that  what  we  see  is  the  en- 
chanted Moor." 

The  officer  came  up,  and  finding  them  engaged  in  such  a 
peaceful  conversation,  stood  amazed  ;  though  Don  Quixote,  to 
be  sure,  still  lay  on  his  back  unable  to  move  from  pure  pum- 
melling and  plasters.  The  officer  turned  to  him  and  said, 
"  Well,  how  goes  it,  good  man  ?  " 

"  I  would,  speak  more  politely  if  I  were  you,"  replied  Don 
Quixote  ;  '^  is  it  the  way  of  this  country  to  address  knights- 
errant  in  that  style,  you  booby  ?  " 

The  officer  finding  himself  so  disresj)ectfully  treated  by  such 
a  sorry-looking  individual,  lost  his  temper,  and  raising  the 
lamp  full  of  oil,  smote  Don  Quixote  such  a  blow  with  it  on  the 
head  that  he  gave  him  a  badly  broken  pate  ;  then,  all  being 
in  darkness,  he  went  out,  and  Sancho  Panza  said,  "  That  is 
certainly  the  enchanted  Moor,  senor,  and  he  keeps  the  treasure 
for  others,  and  for  us  only  the  cuft's  and  lamp-whacks." 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  "  and  there  is 
no  use  in  troubling  one's  self  about  these  matters  of  enchant- 
ment or  being  angry  or  vexed  at  them,  for,  as  they  are  in- 
visible and  visionary  we  shall  find  no  one  on  whom  to  avenge 
iDurselves,  do  what  we  may ;  rise,  Sancho,  if  thou  canst,  and 
call  the  alcaide  of  this  fortress,  and  get  him  to  give  me  a 
little  oil,  wine,  salt,  and.  rosemary  to  make  the  salutiferous 
balsam,  for  indeed  I  believe  I  have  great  need  of  it  now,  lie- 
cause  I  am  losing  much  blood,  from  the  wound,  that  phantom 
gave  me." 

Sancho  got  up  with  pain  enough  in  his  bones,  and  Avent 
after  the  innkeeper  in  the  dark,  and  meeting  the  officer,  who 
was  looking  to  see  what  had  become  of  his  enemy,  he  said 
to  him,  "  Senor,  whoever  you  are,  do  us  the  favor  and.  kind- 
ness to  give  us  a  little  rosemary,  oil,  salt,  and  wine,  for  it  is 
wanted  to  cure  one  of  the  best  knights-errant  on  earth,  who 
lies  on  yonder  bed  sorely  wounded  by  the  hands  of  the  en- 
chanted Moor  that  is  in  this  inn." 

When  the  officer  heard  him  talk  in  this  way,  he  took  him 


112  DON    QUIXOTE. 

for  a  man  out  of  his  senses,  and  as  clay  was  now  beginning 
to  break,  he  opened  the  inn  gate,  and  calling  the  host,  he 
told  him  wliat  this  good  man  wanted.  The  host  furnished 
him  with  what  he  required,  and  Sancho  brought  it  to  Don 
Quixote,  who,  with  his  hands  to  his  head,  was  bewailing  the 
})ain  of  the  blow  of  the  lamp,  which  had  done  him  no  more 
harm  than  raising  a  couple  of  rather  large  lumps,  and  what 
he  fancied  blood  was  only  the  sweat  that  flowed  from  him  in 
his  sufferings  during  the  late  storm.  To  be  brief,  he  took  the 
materials,  of  which  he  made  a  compound,  mixing  them  all  and 
boiling  them  a  good  while  until  it  seemed  to  him  they  had 
come  to  perfection.  He  then  asked  for  some  vial  to  pour  it  into, 
and-  as  there  Avas  no  tone  in  the  inn,  he  decided  on  putting  it 
into  a  tin  oil-bottle  or  flask  of  which  the  host  made  him  a  free 
gift ;  and  over  the  flask  he  repeated  more  than  eighty  pater- 
nosters and  as  many  nu)re  ave-marias,  salves,  and  credos,  ac- 
companying each  word  with  a  cross  by  way  of  benediction, 
at  all  which  there  were  present  Sancho,  the  innkeeper,  and 
the  ofiicer;  for  the  carrier  was  now  peacefully  engaged  in 
attending  to  the  comfort  of  his  mules. 

This  being  accomplished,  he  felt  anxious  to  make  trial  him- 
self, on  the  spot,  of  the  virtue  of  this  precious  balsam,  as  he 
considered  it,  and  so  he  drank  near  a  quart  of  what  could 
not  be  put  into  the  flask  and  remained  in  the  pipkin  in  which 
it  had  been  boiled ;  but  scarcely  had  he  done  driidcin^g  Avhen 
he  began  to  vomit  in  such  a  way  that  nothing  was  left  in  his 
stomach,  and  with  the  })angs  and  spasms  of  vomiting  he  broke 
into  a  profuse  sweat,  on  account  of  which  he  bade  them  cover 
him  up  and  leave  him  alone.  They  did  so,  and  he  lay  sleep- 
ing more  than  three  hours,  at  the  end  of  which  he  awoke  and 
felt  very  great  bodily  relief  and  so  much  ease  from  his  bruises 
that  he  thought  himself  quite  cured,  and  verily  believed  he 
had  hit  upon  the  balsam  of  Fierabras ;  and  that  with  this 
remedy  he  might  thenceforward,  without  any  fear,  face  any 
kind  of  destruction,  battle,  or  combat,  however  perilous  it 
might  be. 

Sancho  Panza,  who  also  regarded  the  amendment  of  his 
master  as  miraculous,  begged  him  to  give  him  Avhat  was  left  in 
the  pipkin,  which  was  no  small  quantity.  Don  Quixote  con- 
sented, and  he,  taking  it  with  two  hands,  in  good  faith  and 
with  a  better  will,  gulped  down  and  drained  off  very  little  less 
than  his  master.     But  the  fact  is,  that  the  stomach  of  poor 


CHAPTER    XVII.  113 


Sanelio  was  of  necessity  not  so  delicate  as  that  of  his  master, 
and  so,  before  vomiting,  he  Avas  seized  with  such  gripings,  and 
retchings,  and  such  sweats  and  faintness,  that  verily  and  truly 
he  believed  his  last  liour  had  come,  and  finding  himself  so 
racked  and  tormented  he  cursed  the  balsam  and  the  thief  that 
had  given  it  to  him. 

Don  Quixote  seeing  him  in  this  state  said,  '■  It  is  my  belief, 
Sancho,  that  this  mischief  comes  of  thy  not  Ijeing  dubbed  a 
knight,  for  I  am  persuaded  this  liquor  cannot  be  good  for  those 
who  are  not  so." 

"  If  your  worship  knew  that,"  returned  Sancho,  —  "  woe 
betide  me  and  all  my  kindred  !  —  why  did  you  let  me  taste 
it?" 

At  this  moment  the  draught  took  effect,  and  the  poor  sqiiire 
began  to  discharge  both  ways  at  such  a  rate  that  the  rush  mat 
on  which  he  had  thrown  himself  and  the  canvas  blanket  he 
had  covering  him  were  fit  for  nothing  afterwards.  He  sweated 
and  perspired  with  such  paroxysms  and  convulsions  that  not 
only  he  himself  but  all  present  thought  his  end  had  come. 
This  tempest  and  tribulation  lasted  about  two  hours,  at  the 
end  of  which  he  was  left,  not  like  his  master,  but  so  weak  and 
exhausted  that  he  could  not  stand.  Don  Quixote,  however, 
who,  as  has  been  said,  felt  hinaself  relieved  and  well,  was  eager 
to  take  his  departure  at  once  in  quest  of  adventures,  as  it 
seemed  to  him  that  all  the  time  he  loitered  there  was  a  fraud 
upon  the  world  and  those  in  it  who  stood  in  need  of  his  help 
and  protection,  all  the  more  when  he  had  the  security  and  con- 
fidence his  balsam  afforded  him  ;  and  so,  urged  by  this  impulse, 
he  saddled  Rocinante  himself  and  put  the  pack-saddle  on  his 
squire's  beast,  whom  likewise  he  helped  to  dress  and  mount 
the  ass ;  after  which  he  mounted  his  horse  and  kirning  to  a 
corner  of  the  inn  he  laid  hold  of  a  pike  that  stood  there, 
to  serve  him  by  way  of  a  lance.  All  that  were  in  the  inn,  who 
Avere  more  than  twenty  persons,  stood  watching  him  ;  the  inn- 
keeper's daughter  was  likewise  observing  him,  and  he  too  never 
took  his  eyes  off  her,  and  from  time  to  time  fetched  a  sigh 
that  he  seemed  to  pluck  up  from  the  depths  of  his  bowels  ; 
but  they  all  thought  it  must  be  from  the  pain  he  felt  in  his 
ribs  ;  at  any  rate  they  who  had  seen  him  plastered  the  night 
before  thought  so. 

As  soon  as  they  were  both  mounted,  at  the  gate  of  the  inn, 
he  called  to  the  host  and  said  in  a  very  grave  and  measured 

Vol.  I.  —  8 


114  DON    QUIXOTE. 

voice,  "  Many  and  great  are  the  favors,  Sefior  Alcaide,  that  I 
have  received  in  this  castle  of  yours,  and  I  remain  under  the 
deepest  obligation  to  be  grateful  to  you  for  them  all  the  days 
of  my  life  ;  if  I  can  repay  them  in  avenging  you  of  any  arro- 
gant foe  who  may  have  wronged  you,  know  that  my  calling  is 
no  other  than  to  aid  the  weak,  and  to  avenge  those  who  suffer 
wrong,  and  to  chastise  perfidy.  Search  your  memory,  and  if 
you  find  anything  of  this  kind  you  need  only  tell  me  of  it, 
and  I  promise  you  by  the  order  of  knighthood  Avhich  I  have 
received  to  jDrocure  you  satisfaction  and  reparation  to  the  ut- 
most of  your  desire." 

The  innkeeper  replied  to  him  with  equal  calmness,  "  Sir 
Knight,  I  do  not  want  your  worship  to  avenge  me  of  any 
wrong,  because  when  any  is  done  me  I  can  take  what  vengeance 
seems  good  to  me  ;  the  only  thing  I  Avant  is  that  you  i)ay  me  the 
score  that  you  have  run  up  in  the  inn  last  night,  as  well  for  the 
straw  and  l)arley  for  your  two  beasts,  as  for  supj^er  and  beds." 

"  Then  this  is  an  inn  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  And  a  very  respectable  one,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

"  I  have  been  under  a  mistake  all  this  time,"  answered  Don 
(Juixote,  "  for  in  truth  I  Hiought  it  was  a  castle,  and  not  a  bad 
one  ;  but  since  it  appears  that  it  is  not  a  castle  but  an  inn,  all 
that  can  be  done  now  is  that  you  should  excuse  the  payment, 
for  I  can  not  contravene  the  rule  of  knights-errant,  of  whom  I 
know  as  a  fact  (and  up  to  the  present  I  have  read  nothing  to 
the  contrary)  that  they  never  paid  for  lodging  or  anything  else 
in  the  inn  where  they  might  be  ;  '  for  any  hospitality  that  might 
be  offered  them  is  their  due  by  law  and  right  in  return  lor  the 
insufferable  toil  they  endure  in  seeking  adventures  by  night 
and  by  day,  summer  and  in  winter,  on  foot  and  on  horseback, 
in  hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and  heat,  exposed  to  all  the  inclem- 
encies of  heaven  and  all  the  hardships  of  earth." 

"  I  have  little  to  do  with  that,"  replied  the  innkeeper  ;  "  pay 
me  what  you  owe  me,  and  let  us  have  no  more  talk  or  chivalry, 
for  all  I  care  about  is  to  get  to  my  money." 

"  You  are  a  stupid,  scurvy  innkeeper,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
and  putting  spurs  to  Rocinante  and  bringing  his  pike  to  the 
slope  he  rode  out  of  the  inn  before  any  one  could  stop  him,  and 
pushed  on  some  distance  without  looking  to  see  if  his  squire 
was  followinsj  him. 


'^O 


'  Nevertheless  Orlando  in  the  Morgante  Maggiore  is  called  upon  to  leave 
his  horse  in  pledge  for  his  reckoning.     Morg.  Magg.  c.  xxi.  st.  129. 


CHAPTER    XVI I.  115 

The  innkeeper  when  he  saw  hiiu  go  without  payini,^  hi]n  I'an 
to  get  payment  of  Sancho,  who  said  that  as  his  master  woukl 
not  pay  neither  woukl  he,  because,  being  as  he  was  squire  to  a 
knight-errant,  the  same  rule  and  reason  held  good  for  him  as 
for  his  master  with  regard  to  not  paying  anything  in  inns  and 
hostelries.  At  this  the  innkeeper  waxed  very  wroth,  and 
threatened  if  he  did  not  pay  to  compel  him  in  a  way  that  he 
Avould  not  like.  To  which  Sancho  made  answer  that  by  the 
law  of  chivalry  his  master  had  received  he  would  not  pay  a 
rap,^  though  it  cost  him  his  life  ;  for  the  excellent  and  ancient 
usage  of  knights-errant  was  not  going  to  be  violated  by  him, 
nor  should  the  squires  of  such  as  were  yet  to  come  into  the 
world  ever  complain  of  him  or  reproach  him  with  breaking  so 
just  a  law. 

The  ill-luck  of  the  unfortunate  Sancho  so  ordered  it  that 
among  the  company  in  the  inn  there  were  four  wool-carders 
from  Segovia,  three  needle-makers  from  the  Colt  of  Cordova, 
and  two  lodgers  from  the  Fair  of  Seville,"  lively  fellows,  ten- 
der-hearted, fond  of  a  joke,  and  playful,  who,  almost  as  if 
instigated  and  moved  by  a  common  impulse,  made  up  to 
Sancho  and  dismounted  him  from  his  ass,  while  one  of  them 
went  in  for  the  blanket  of  the  host's  bed  ;  but  on  flinging  him 
into  it  they  looked  up,  and  seeing  tliat  the  ceiling  was  some- 
what lower  than  what  they  required  for  their  work,  they 
decided  upon  going  out  into  the  yard,  which  was  bounded 
by  the  sky,  and  there,  putting  Sancho  in  the  middle  of  the 
blanket,  they  began  to  make  sport  with  him  as  they  Avould 
with  a  dog  at  Shrovetide.'^  The  cries  of  the  poor  blanketed 
wretch  were  so  loud  that  they  reached  the  ears  of  his  master, 
who,  halting  to  listen  attentively,  was  persuaded  that  some 
new  adventure  was  coming,  until  he  clearly  perceived  that  it 
was  his  squire  wdio  uttered  them.  Wheeling  about  he  came 
up  to  the  inn  with  a  laborious  gallop,  and  finding  it  shut  went 
roiuid  it  to  see  if  he  could  find  some  way  of  getthig  in ;  Imt  as 
soon  as  he  came  to  the  wall  of  the  yard,  which  was  not  very 
high,  he  discovered  the  game  that  was  being  played  with  his 

'  Cornado,  a  coin  of  infinitesimal  value,  about  one-sixth  of  a  maravecH. 

^  The  "  Fair"  was  a  low  quarter  in  Seville. 

^  "  The  roome  was  high-roofed  and  fitted  for  their  purpose.  .  .  .  They 
began  to  blanket  me  and  to  toss  me  up  in  the  air  as  they  used  to  doe  to 
dogges  at  Shrovetide." — Aleman's  Guzm,an  de  Alfayache,Vt.  I.  Bk.  III. 
c.  i.  (James  Mabbe's  translation).  As  the  First  Part  of  Guzman  was 
published  in  1599,  it  may  have  suggested  the  scene  to  Cervantes. 


116  DON    QUIXOTE. 

squire.  He  saw  him  rising  and  falling  in  the  air  with  such 
grace  and  nimbleness  that,  had  his  rage  allowed  him,  it  is  my 
belief  he  would  have  laughed.  He  tried  to  climb  from  his 
horse  on  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  but  he  was  so  bruised  and 
battered  that  he  could  not  even  dismount ;  and  so  from  the 
back  of  his  horse  he  began  to  utter  such  maledictions  and 
objurgations  against  those  who  were  blanketing  Sancho  as  it 
would  be  impossible  to  write  down  accurately  :  they,  however, 
did  not  stay  their  laughter  or  their  work  for  this,  nor  did 
the  flying  Sancho  cease  his  lamentations,  mingled  now  with 
threats,  now  with  entreaties,  but  all  to  little  purpose,  or  none 
at  all,  until  from  pure  weariness  they  left  off.  They  then 
brought  him  his  ass,  and  mounting  him  on  top  of  it  they  put 
his  jacket  round  him ;  and  the  compassionate  Maritornes,  see- 
ing him  so  exhausted,  thought  fit  to  refresh  him  with  a  jug  of 
water,  and  that  it  might  be  all  the  cooler  she  fetched  it  from 
the  well.  Sancho  took  it,  and  as  he  was  raising  it  to  his 
mouth  he  was  stopped  by  the  cries  of  his  master  exclaiming, 
"  Sancho,  my  son,  drink  not  water  ;  drink  it  not,  my  son,  for  it 
will  kill  thee  ;  see,  here  I  have  the  blessed  balsam  (and  he 
held  up  the  flask  of  liquor),  and  with  drinking  two  drops  of  it 
thou  wilt  certainly  be  restored." 

At  these  words  Sancho  turned  his  eyes  asquint,  and  in  a  still 
louder  voice  said,  "  Can  it  be  your  worship  has  forgotten  that 
I  am  not  a  knight,  or  do  you  want  me  to  end  by  vomiting  up 
what  bowels  I  have  left  after  last  night  ?  Keep  your  liquor 
in  the  name  of  all  the  devils,  and  leave  me  to  myself ! "  and  at 
one  and  the  same  instant  he  left  off  talking  and  began  drink- 
ing ;  but  as  at  the  first  sup  he  perceived  it  was  water  he  did 
not  care  to  go  on  with  it,  and  begged  Maritornes  to  fetch  him 
some  wine,  which  she  did  with  right  good  will,  and  paid  for  it 
with  her  own  money  ;  for  indeed  they  say  of  her  that,  though 
she  was  in  that  line  of  life,  there  was  some  faint  and  distant 
resemblance  to  a  Christian  about  her.  AYhen  Sancho  had  done 
drinking  he  dug  his  heels  into  his  ass,  and  the  gate  of  the  inn 
Ijeing  thrown  open  he  passed  out  very  well  pleased  at  having 
paid  nothing  and  carried  his  point,  though  it  had  been  at  the 
expense  of  his  usual  sureties,  his  shoulders.  It  is  true  that 
the  innkeeper  detained  his  alforjas  in  payment  of  what  was 
owing  to  him,  but  Sancho  took  his  departure  in  such  a  flurry 
that  he  never  missed  them.  The  innkeeper,  as  soon  as  he  saw 
him  off,  wanted  to  bar  the  gate  close,  but  the  blanketers  would 


CHAPTER    XVIII.  117 

not  agree  to  it,  for  they  were  fellows  who  would  not  have 
cared  two  farthings  for  Don  Quixote,  even  had  he  been  really 
one  of  the  knights-errant  of  the  Round  Table. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

IN  WHICH  IS  RELATED  THE  DISCOURSE  SAXCHO  PANZA  HELD 
WITH  HIS  MASTER,  DON  QUIXOTE,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER 
ADVENTURES     WORTH     RELATING. 

Sancho  reached  his  master  so  limp  and  faint  that  he  could 
not  urge  on  his  beast.  When  Don  Quixote  saw  the  state  he 
was  in  he  said,  "  I  have  now  come  to  the  conclusion,  good 
Sancho,  that  this  castle  or  inn  is  beyond  a  doubt  enchanted, 
because  those  who  have  so  atrociously  diverted  themselves 
with  thee,  what  can  they  be  but  phantoms  or  beings  of  an- 
other world  ?  and  I  hold  this  confirmed  by  having  noticed 
that  when  I  was  by  the  wall  of  the  yard  witnessing  the  acts 
of  thy  sad  tragedy,  it  was  out  of  my  power  to  mount  upon  it, 
nor  could  I  even  dismount  from  llocinante,  because  they  no 
doubt  had  me  enchanted  ;  for  I  swear  to  thee  by  the  faith  of 
what  I  am  that  if  I  had  been  able  to  climb  up  or  dismount,  I 
would  have  avenged  thee  in  such  a  way  that  those  braggart 
thieves  would  have  remembered  their  freak  forever,  even 
though  in  so  doing  I  knew  that  I  contravened  the  laws  of 
chivalry,  which,  as  I  have  often  told  thee,  do  not  permit  a 
knight  to  lay  hands  on  him  Avho  is  not  one,  save  in  case  of 
urgent  and  great  necessity  in  defence  of  his  own  life  and 
person." 

"I  would  have  avenged  myself  too  if  I  could,"'  said  Saiicho, 
''  whether  I  had  been  dubbed  knight  or  not,  but  I  could  not ; 
though  for  my  part  I  am  persuaded  those  who  amused  them- 
selves with  me  were  not  phantoms  or  enchanted  men,  as  your 
worship  says,  but  men  of  flesh  and  bone  like  ourselves ;  and 
they  all  had  their  names,  for  I  heard  them  name  them  when 
they  were  tossing  me,  and  one  was  called  Pedro  Martinez,  and 
another  Tenorio  Hernandez,  and  the  innkeeper,  I  heard,  was 
called  Juan  Palomeque  the  Left-handed  ;  so  that,  senor,  your 
not  being  able  to  leap  over  the  Avail  of  the  yard  or  dismount 
from  your  horse  came  of  something  else  besides  enchantments  | 


118  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  what  I  make  out  clearly  from  all  this  is,  that  these  advent- 
ures we  go  seeking  will  in  the  end  lead  us  into  such  misad- 
ventures that  we  shall  not  know  which  is  our  right  foot ;  and 
that  the  best  and  wisest  thing,  according  to  my  small  wits, 
would  be  for  us  to  return  home,  now  that  it  is  harvest-time, 
and  attend  to  our  business,  and  give  over  wandering  from 
Zeca  to  Mecca  and  from  pail  to  bucket,  as  the  saying  is."  ^ 

'<  How  little  thou  knowest  about  chivalry,  Sancho,"  replied 
Don  Quixote;  "hold  thy  peace  and  have  patience;  the  day 
will  come  when  thou  shalt  see  with  thine  own  eyes  what  an 
honorable  thing  it  is  to  wander  in  the  pursuit  of  this  calling ; 
nay,  tell  me,  what  greater  pleasure  can  there  be  in  the  Avorld, 
or  what  delight  can  equal  that  of  winning  a  battle,  and  tri- 
umphing over  one's  enemy  ?     None,  beyond  all  doubt." 

"  Very  likely,"  answered  Sancho,  "though  I  do  not  know  it ; 
all  I  know  is  that  since  we  have  been  knights-errant,  or  since 
your  worship  has  been  one  (for  I  have  no  right  to  reckon  my- 
self one  of  so  honorable  a  number),  we  have  never  won  any 
battle  except  the  one  with  the  Biscayan,  and  even  out  of  that 
your  worship  came  with  half  an  ear  and  half  a  helmet  the 
less ;  and  from  that  till  now  it  has  been  all  cudgellings  and 
niore  cudgellings,  cuffs  and  more  cuffs,  I  getting  the  blanket- 
ing over  and  above,  and  falling  in  with  enchanted  persons  on 
whom  I  can  not  avenge  myself  so  as  to  know  what  the  delight, 
as  your  worship  calls  it,  of  conquering  an  enemy  is  like." 

"That  is  what  vexes  me,  and  what  ought  to  vex  thee, 
Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote ;  "but  henceforward  I  will  en- 
deavor to  have  at  hand  some  sword  made  by  such  craft  that 
no  kind  of  enchantments  can  take  effect  upon  him  who  carries 
it,  and  it  is  even  possible  that  fortiuie  may  procure  for  me 
that  which  l)elonged  to  Amadis  when  he  was  called  '  The  Knight 
of  the  Burning  Sword,'  ^  which  was  one  of  the  best  swords 
that  ever  knight  in  the  world  possessed,  for,  besides  having  the 
said  virtue,  it  cut  like  a  razor,  and  there  was  no  armor,  how- 
ever strong  and  enchanted  it  might  be,  that  coidd  resist  it." 

"  Such  is  my  luck,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  even  if  that  hap- 
})ened  and  your  Avorship  found  some  such  sword,  it  would,  like 

'  Proverbial  expression  (-i?)  —  "  Amlar  de  Ceca  en  Meca  y  de  zoca  en 
c'olodra  "  —  somewhat  like  our  ])lirase,  "  from  post  to  pillar."  The  Ceca 
(properly  a  mint  or  a  shrine)  was  the  name  given  to  i)art  of  the  Great 
Mosque  of  Cordova,  once  second  to  Mecca  only  as  a  resort  of  pilgrims. 
Zoca  properly  means  a  wooden  shoe,  hut  here  a  vessel  hollowed  out  of 
wood.  ^  Amadis  of  Greece,  not  Amadis  of  Gaul. 


/ 


r;s 


'Sb.  ■'-  »>*  f 


'■^^ 


■■'a  --m 


7 


THE  FLOCKS   OF  SHEEP.     Vol,  I.      Page  119. 


CHAPTER    XVIII.  119 

the  balsam,  turn  out  serviceable  aiul  good  for  dubbed  knights 
only,  and  as  for  the  squires,  they  might  sup  sorrow." 

"  Fear  not  that,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote  :  "  Heaven  Avill 
deal  better  by  thee." 

Thus  talking,  Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  Avere  going  along, 
when,  on  the  road  they  Avere  following,  Don  Quixote  perceived 
approaching  them  a  large  and  thick  cloud  of  dust,  on  seeing 
which  he  turned  to  Sancho  and  said,  "  This  is  the  day,  0 
Sancho,  on  which  will  be  seen  the  boon  my  fortune  is  reserving 
for  ]ne  ;  this,  I  say,  is  the  day  on  which  as  much  as  on  any 
other  shall  be  displayed  the  might  of  my  arm,  and  on  which  I 
shall  do  deeds  that  shall  remain  Avritten  in  the  book  of  fame 
for  all  ages  to  come.  Seest  thou  that  cloud  of  dust  which  rises 
yonder  ?  Well,  then,  all  that  is  churned  np  ^  by  a  vast  army 
composed  of  various  and  countless  nations  that  conies  marching 
there." 

"  According  to  that  there  must  be  two,"  said  Sancho,  ''  for 
on  this  opposite  side  also  there  rises  just  such  another  cloud  of 
dust." 

Don  Quixote  turned  to  look  and  found  that  it  was  true,  and 
rejoicing  exceedingly,  he  concluded  that  they  were  two  armies 
about  to  engage  and  encounter  in  the  midst  of  that  broad  plain  ; 
for  at  all  times  and  seasons  his  fancy  was  full  of  the  battles, 
enchantments,  adventures,  crazy  feats,  loves,  and  defiances  that 
are  recorded  in  the  books  of  chivalry,  and  everything  he  said, 
thought,  or  did  had  reference  to  such  things.  iSTow  the  cloud 
of  dust  he  had  seen  was  raised  by  two  great  droves  of  sheep 
coming  along  the  same  road  in  opposite  directions,  Avhich,  be- 
cause of  the  dust,  did  not  become  visible  until  they  drcAV  near, 
but  Don  Quixote  asserted  so  positively  that  they  were  armies 
that  Sancho  was  led  to  believe  it  and  say,  "  A^'ell,  and  Avhat 
are  we  to  do,  senor  ?  " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  give  aid  and  assistance  to 
the  weak  and  those  who  need  it ;  and  thou  must  know,  Sancho, 
that  this  which  comes  opposite  to  iis  is  conducted  and  led  by 
the  mighty  emperor  Alifanfaron,  lord  of  the  great  isle  of 
Trapobana  ;  this  other  that  marches  behind  me  is  that  of  his 
enemy  the  king  of  the  Garamantas,  Pentapolin  of  the  Bare 
Arm,  for  he  always  goes  into  battle  Avith  his  right  arm  bare."  ^ 

'  The  word  in  the  original  is  citajdda — •"  curdled"  —  which  Clemencin 
objects  to  as  obscure,  and  would  rephice  by  causada  — "  caused." 

^  Suero  de  Quiiiones,  the  hero  of  tlie  Paso  honroso  at  the  bridge  of 
Orbigo  in  14;^>4,  used  to  fight  against  the  Moors  with  his  right  arm  bare. 


120  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  But  "wliy  are  these  two  lords  sucli  enemies  ?  "  asked  Sancho. 

"  They  are  at  enmity,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  because  this 
Alif anfaron  is  a  furious  pagan  and  is  in  love  with  the  daughter 
of  Pentapolin,  who  is  a  very  beautiful  and  moreover  gracious 
lady,  and  a  Christian,  and  her  father  is  unAvilling  to  bestow 
her  upon  the  pagan  king  unless  he  first  abandons  the  religion 
of  his  false  prophet  jNIahomet,  and  adopts  his  own." 

"  By  my  beard,"  said  Sancho,  "  but  Pentapolin  does  qxiite 
right,  and  I  will  help  him  as  much  as  I  can." 

''  In  that  thou  wilt  do  what  is  thy  duty,  Sancho,"  said  Don 
Quixote  ;  "  for  to  engage  in  battles  of  this  sort  it  is  not  req- 
uisite to  be  a  dubbed  knight." 

"  That  I  can  well  understand,"  answered  Sancho  ;  "  but 
where  shall  we  put  this  ass  where  we  may  be  sure  to  find  him 
after  tlie  fray  is  over  ?  for  I  believe  it  has  not  been  the  cus- 
tom so  far  to  go  into  battle  on  a  beast  of  this  kind." 

"  That  is  triie,"  said  Don  Quixote, ''  and  what  you  had  best  do 
with  him  is  to  leave  him  to  take  his  chance  whether  he  be  lost 
or  not,  for  the  horses  we  shall  have  when  we  come  out  victors 
will  be  so  many  that  even  Rocinante  will  nin  a  risk  of  being 
changed  for  another.  But  attend  to  me  and  observe,  for  I 
wish  to  give  thee  some  account  of  the  chief  knights  who  ac- 
company these  two  armies  ;  and  that  thou  mayest  the  better 
see  and  mark,  let  us  withdraw  to  that  hillock  which  rises 
yonder,  whence  both  armies  may  be  seen." 

They  did  so,  and  placed  themselves  on  a  rising  gromid  from 
which  the  two  droves  that  Don  Quixote  made  armies  of  might 
have  been  plainly  seen  if  the  clouds  of  dust  they  raised  had  not 
obscured  them  and  blinded  the  sight ;  nevertheless,  seeing  in 
his  imagination  what  he  did  not  see  and  what  did  not  exist,  he 
began  thus  in  a  loud  voice  :  ''  That  knight  Avhom  thou  seest 
yonder  in  yellow  armor,  who  bears  upon  his  shield  a  lion 
crowned  crouching  at  the  feet  of  a  damsel,  is  the  valiant  Laur- 
calco,  lord  of  the  Silver  Bridge  ;  that  one  in  armor  with  flowers 
of  gold,  who  bears  on  his  shield  three  crowns  argent  on  an 
azure  held,  is  the  dreaded  Micocolembo,  grand  duke  of  Quiro- 
cia  ;  that  other  of  gigantic  frame,  on  his  right  hand,  is  the  ever 
dauntless  Brandabarbaran  de  Boliche,  lord  of  the  three  Ara- 
bias,  who  for  armor  wears  that  serpent  skin,  and  has  for 
shield  a  gate  which,  according  to  tradition,  is  one  of  those  of 
the  temple  that  Samson  brought  to  the  ground  when  by  his 
death  he  revenged  himself  upon  his  enemies  ;  but  turn  thine 


CHAPTER    XVIII.  121 

eyes  to  the  other  side,  and  thou  shalt  see  in  front  and  in  the 
van  of  this  other  army  the  ever  victorious  and  never  van- 
quished Timonel  of  Carcajona,  prince  of  New  Biscay,  who 
comes  in  armor  witli  arms  quartered  azure,  vert,  argent,  and 
or,  and  bears  on  his  shiehl  a  cat  or  on  a  fiehl  tawny  with  a 
motto  which  says  Mlau,  which  is  the  beginning  of  the  name 
of  his  lady,  who  according  to  report  is  the  peerless  Miaulina, 
daughter  of  the  duke  Alfeniquen  of  the  Algarve  ;  the  other, 
who  burdens  and  presses  the  loins  of  that  powerful  charger  and 
bears  arms  white  as  snow  and  a  shield  blank  and  without  any 
device,  is  a  novice  knight,  a  Frenchman  by  birth,  Pierres  Papin 
by  name,  lord  of  the  baronies  of  Utrique  ;  that  other,  who  witli 
iron-shod  heels  strikes  the  flanks  of  that  nimble  party-colored 
zebra,  and  for  arms  bears  azure  cups,  is  the  mighty  duke  of 
Nervia,  Espartafilardo  del  P>os(pie,  who  bears  for  device  on  his 
shield  an  asparagus  plant  with  a  motto  in  Castilian  that  says, 
'Bastrea  ml  siierte.'  "  ^  And  so  he  went  on  naming  a  numlDer 
of  knights  of  one  squadron  or  the  other  out  of  his  imagination, 
and  to  all  he  assigned  off-hand  their  arms,  colors,  devices,  and 
mottoes,  carried  away  by  the  illusions  of  his  unheard-of  craze  ; 
and  without  a  pause,  he  continued,  "  People  of  divers  nations 
compose  this  squadron  in  front ;  here  are  those  that  drink  of 
the  sweet  waters  of  the  famous  Xanthus,  those  that  scour  the 
woody  Massilian  plains,  those  that  sift  the  pure  fine  gold  of 
Arabia  Felix,  those  that  enjoy  the  famed  cool  banks  of  the 
crystal  Thermodon,  those  that  in  many  and  various  ways 
divert  the  streams  of  the  golden  Pactolus,  the  ISTumidiaus,  faitli- 
less  in  their  promises,  the  Persians  renowned  in  archery,  the 
Parthians  and  the  Medes  that  fight  as  they  fly,  the  Arabs 
that  ever  shift  their  dwellings,  the  Scythians  as  cruel  as  they 
are  fair,  the  Ethiopians  with  ])ierced  lips,  and  an  infinity  of 
other  nations  whose  features  I  recognize  and  descry,  though 
I  can  not  recall  their  names.  In  this  other  squadron  there 
come  those  that  drink  of  the  crystal  streams  of  the  olive-bear- 
iuff  Betis,  those  that  make  smooth  their  countenances  with  the 
water  of  the  ever  rich  and  golden  Tagus,  those  that  rejoice  in 
the  fertilizing  flow  of  the  divine  Genii,  those  that  roam  the 

•  Rastrear  means  properly  to  track  by  following  the  footprints,  and 
hence  to  keep  close  to  the  ground  ;  the  motto,  therefore,  is  j)robal)ly 
meant  to  have  a  double  signification,  either  "  in  Fortune's  footsteps  "'  or 
"  my  fortune  creeps  on  the  ground,"  in  allusion  to  the  asparagus,  which  is 
a  low-growing  plant. 


122  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Tartesian  plains  ^  abounding  in  pasture,  tliose  that  take  their 
pleasure  in  the  elysian  meadows  of  Jerez,  the  rich  jVIanchegans 
crowned  with  ruddy  ears  of  corn,  the  wearers  of  iron,  old  relics 
of  the  Gothic  race,  those  that  bathe  in  the  Pisuerga  renowned 
for  its  gentle  current,  those  that  feed  their  herds  along  the 
spreading  pastures  of  the  winding  Guadiana  famed  for  its 
hidden  course,"^  those  that  tremble  with  the  cold  of  the  pine- 
clad  Pyrenees  or  the  dazzling  snows  of  the  lofty  Apennine  ;  in 
a  word,  as  many  as  all  Europe  includes  and  contains." 

Good  God !  what  a  number  of  countries  and  nations  he 
named !  giving  to  each  its  proper  attributes  with  marvellous 
readiness  ;  brimful  and  saturated  with  Avhat  he  had  read  in  his 
lying  books  !  Sancho  Panza  hung  upon  his  words  without  speak- 
ing, and  from  time  to  time  turned  to  try  if  he  could  see  the 
knights  and  giants  his  master  was  describing,  and  as  he  could 
not  make  out  one  of  them  he  said  to  him,  ''  Senor,  devil  take  it 
if  there  's  a  sign  of  any  man  you  talk  of,  knight  or  giant,  in  the 
whole  thing ;  maybe  it 's  all  enchantment,  like  the  phantoms 
last  night." 

<'  How  canst  thou  say  that !  "  answered  Don  Quixote  ;  "  dost 
thou  not  hear  the  neighing  of  the  steeds,  the  braying  of  the 
trumpets,  the  roll  of  the  drums  ?  " 

"  I  hear  nothing  but  a  great  bleating  of  ewes  and  sheep," 
said  Sancho;  which  was  true,  for  by  this  time  the  two  flocks 
had  come  close. 

"■  The  fear  thou  art  in,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  prevents 
thee  from  seeing  or  hearing  correctly,  for  one  of  the  effects  of 
fear  is  to  derange  the  senses  and  make  things  appear  different 
from  what  they  are ;  if  thou  art  in  such  fear,  withdraAV  to  one 
side  and  leave  me  to  myself,  for  alone  I  suffice  to  bring  victory 
to  that  side  to  which  I  shall  give  my  aid ;  "  and  so  saying  he 
gave  Eocinante  the  spur,  and  putting  the  lance  in  rest,  shot 
down  the  slope  like  a  thunderbolt.  Sancho  shouted  after  him, 
crying,  "  Come  back,  Senor  Don  Quixote ;  I  vow  to  God  they 
are  sheep  and  ewes  you  are  charging  !  Come  back  !  Unlucky 
the  father  that  begot  me  !  what  madness  is  this  !  Look,  there 
is  no  giant,  nor  knight,  nor  cats,  nor  arms,  nor  shields  quartered 
or  whole,  nor  cups  azure  or  bedevilled.  'Wliat  are  you  about  ? 
Sinner  that  I  am  before  God !  "     But  not  for  all  these  entrea- 

^  From  Tartessus,  a  city  of  Bctica,  supposed  to  have  been  situated 
soraewliere  in  the  neighborhood  of  Tarifa. 

*  In  part  of  its  course  through  La  Mancha  the  Guadiana  flows  under- 
ground. 


CHAPTER    XVI IT.  123 

ties  did  Don  Quixote  turn  back ;  on  tlie  contrary  lie  went  on 
shouting  out,  "  Ho,  knights,  ye  who  follow  and  fight  under  the 
banners  of  the  valiant  emperor  Fentapolin  of  the  Bare  Ann, 
follow  nie  all ;  ye  shall  see  how  easily  I  shall  give  him  his  re- 
venge over  his  enemy  Alifanfaron  of  Trapobana." 

So  saying,  he  dashed  into  the  midst  of  the  squadron  of  ewes, 
and  began  spearing  them  with  as  much  spirit  and  intrepidity 
as  if  he  Avere  transfixing  mortal  enemies  in  earnest.  The  shep- 
herds and  drovers  accompanying  the  flock  shouted  to  him  to 
desist ;  but  seeing  it  was  no  use,  they  ungirt  their  slings  and 
began  to  salute  his  ears  with  stones,  as  big  as  one's  fist.  Don 
Quixote  gave  no  heed  to  the  stones,  but,  letting  drive  right  and 
left,  kept  saying,  "  Where  art  thou,  proud  Alifanfaron  ?  Come 
before  me ;  I  am  a  single  knight  who  would  fain  prove  thy 
prowess  hand  to  hand,  and  make  thee  yield  thy  life  a  pen- 
alty for  the  wrong  thou  dost  to  the  valiant  Pentapolin  Gara- 
manta."  Here  came  a  sugar-plum  from  the  brook  that  struck 
him  on  the  side  and  buried  a  couple  of  ribs  in  his  body.  Feel- 
ing himself  so  smitten,  he  imagined  himself  slain  or  badly 
wounded  for  certain,  and  recollecting  his  liquor  he  drew  out 
his  flask,  and  putting  it  to  his  mouth  began  to  pour  the  con- 
tents into  his  stomach ;  but  ere  he  had  succeeded  in  swallow- 
ing what  seemed  to  him  enough,  there  came  another  almond 
which  struck  him  on  the  hand  and  on  the  flask  so  fairly  that 
it  smashed  it  to  pieces,  knocking  three  or  four  teeth  and 
grinders  out  of  his  mouth  in  its  course,  and  sorely  crushing  two 
fingers  of  his  hand.  Such  was  the  force  of  the  first  blow  and 
of  the  second,  that  the  poor  knight  in  spite  of  himself  came 
down  backwards  off  his  horse.  The  shepherds  came  up,  and 
felt  sure  they  had  killed  him ;  so  in  all  haste  they  collected 
their  flock  together,  took  up  the  dead  beasts,  of  which  there 
were  more  than  seven,  and  made  oft'  without  waiting  to  ascer- 
tain anything  further. 

All  this  time  Sancho  stood  on  the  hill  Avatching  the  crazy 
feats  his  master  was  performing,  and  tearing  his  beard  and 
cursing  the  hour  and  the  occasion  when  fortune  had  made  him 
acquainted  with  him.  Seeing  him,  then,  brought  to  the  ground, 
and  that  the  shepherds  had  taken  themselves  off,  he  came  down 
the  hill  and  ran  to  him  and  found  him  in  very  bad  case,  though 
not  unconscious  ;  and  said  he,  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  to  come  back, 
Senor  Don  Quixote ;  and  that  what  you  were  going  to  attack 
were  not  armies  but  droves  of  sheep  ?  " 


124  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  That 's  how  that  thief  of  a  sage/  my  enemy,  can  alter  and 
falsify  things,"  answered  Don  Quixote  ;  "  thou  must  know, 
Sancho,  that  it  is  a  very  easy  matter  for  those  of  his  sort  to 
make  us  take  what  form  they  choose  ;  and  this  malignant 
being  who  persecutes  me,  envious  of  the  glory  he  knew  I  was 
to  win  in  this  battle,  has  turned  the  squadrons  of  the  enemy 
into  droves  of  sheep.  At  any  rate,  do  this  much,  I  beg  of 
thee,  Sancho,  to  undeceive  thyself,  and  see  that  what  I  say  is 
true  ;  mount  thy  ass  and  follow  them  quietly,  and  thou  shalt 
see  that  when  they  have  gone  some  little  distance  from  this 
they  will  return  to  their  original  shape  and,  ceasing  to  be 
sheep,  become  men  in  all  respects  as  I  described  them  to  thee 
at  first.  But  go  not  just  yet,  for  I  want  thy  help  and  assist- 
ance ;  come  hither  and  see  how  many  of  my  teeth  and  grind- 
ers are  missing,  for  I  feel  as  if  there  was  not  one  left  in  my 
mouth." 

Sancho  came  so  close  that  he  almost  put  his  eyes  into  his 
mouth  ;  now  just  at  that  moment  the  balsam  had  acted  on  the 
stomach  of  Don  Quixote,  so,  at  the  very  instant  when  Sancho 
came  to  examine  his  mouth,  he  discharged  all  its  contents  with 
more  force  than  a  musket,  and  full  into  the  beard  of  the  com- 
passionate squire. 

"  Holy  Mary  ! "  cried  Sancho,  "  what  is  this  that  has  hap- 
pened me  ?  Clearly  this  sinner  is  mortally  wounded,  as  lie 
vomits  blood  from  the  mouth  ;  "  but  considering  the  matter  a 
little  more  closely  he  perceived  by  the  color,  taste,  and  smell, 
that  it  was  not  blood  but  the  balsam  from  the  flask  which  he 
had  seen  him  drink  ;  and  he  was  taken  with  such  a  loathing 
that  his  stomach  turned,  and  he  vomited  up  his  inside  over  his 
very  master,  and  both  were  left  in  a  precious  state.  Sancho 
ran  to  his  ass  to  get  something  wherewith  to  clean  himself, 
and  relieve  his  master,  out  of  his  alforjas ;  but  not  finding 
them,  he  well-nigh  took  leave  of  his  senses,  and  cursed  him- 
self anew,  and  in  his  heart  resolved  to  quit  his  master  and 
return  home,  even  though  he  forfeited  the  wages  of  his  service 
and  all  hopes  of  the  government  of  the  promised  island. 

Don  Quixote  now  rose,  and  putting  his  left  hand  to  his 
mouth  to  keep  his  teeth  from  falling  out  altogether,  with  the 
other  he  laid  hold  of  the  bridle  of  Rocinante,  who  had  never 
stirred  from  his  master's  side  —  so  loyal  and  well-behaved  was 
he  —  and  betook  himself  to  where  the  squire  stood  leaning  over 

'  See  chapter  vii. 


CHAPTER    XVIII.  1^5 

his  ass  with  his  hand  to  his  cheek,  like  one  in  deep  dejection. 
Seeing  liim  in  this  mood,  looking  so  sad,  Don  Quixote  said  to 
him,  "  Bear  in  mind,  Sancho,  that  one  man  is  no  more  than 
anotlier,  unless  he  does  more  than  another ;  all  these  tempests 
that  fall  upon  us  are  signs  that  fair  weather  is  coming  shortly, 
and  that  things  will  go  well  with  us,  for  it  is  impossible  for 
good  or  evil  to  last  forever  ;  and  hence  it  follows  that  the  evil 
having  lasted  long,  the  good  must  be  now  ingh  at  hand  ;  so 
thou  must  not  distress  thyself  at  the  misfortunes  which  happen 
to  me,  since  thou  hast  no  share  in  them." 

"  How  have  I  not  ?  "  replied  Sancho  ;  *<  was  he  whom  they 
blanketed  yesterday  perchance  any  other  than  my  father's 
son  ?  and  the  alforjas  that  are  missing  to-day  with  all  my 
treasures,  did  they  belong  to  any  other  but  myself?" 

"What!  are  the  alforjas  missing,  .  Sancho '.' "  said  Don 
Quixote. 

"  Yes,  they  are  missing,"  answered  Sancho. 

"  In  that  case  we  have  nothing  to  eat  to-day/'  replied  Don 
Quixote. 

"  It  would  be  so,"  answered  Sancho,  "  if  there  were  none 
of  the  herbs  your  worship  says  you  know  in  these  meadows, 
those  with  which  knights-errant  as  unlucky  as  your  worship 
are  wont  to  supply  such-like  shortcomings." 

"  For  all  that,"  answei-ed  Don  Quixote,  "  I  would  rather 
have  just  now  a  quarter  of  bread,  or  a  loaf  and  a  couple  of 
pilchards'  heads,  then  all  the  herbs  described  by  Dioscorides, 
even  with  Dr.  Laguna's  notes.'  Nevertheless,  Sancho  the 
Good,  mount  thy  beast  and  come  along  with  me,  for  God,  who 
provides  for  all  things,  will  not  fail  us  (more  especially  Avhen 
we  are  so  active  in  his  service  as  we  are),  since  he  fails  not 
the  midges  of  the  air,  nor  the  grubs  of  the  earth,  nor  the  tad- 
poles of  the  water,  and  is  so  merciful  that  he  maketh  his  sun 
to  rise  on  the  evil  and  on  the  good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the 
just  and  on  the  unjust." 

"  Your  worsliip  would  make  a  better  preacher  than  knight- 
errant,"  said  Sancho. 

"  Knights-errant  knew  and  ought  to  know  everything, 
Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  "  for  there  were  knights-errant  in 
former  times  as  well  qualified  to  deliver  a  sermon  or  discourse 
in  the  middle  of  a  highway,  as  if  they  had  graduated  in  the 

'  Dr.  Andreas  Laguna,  who  translated  Dioscorides  into  Spanish  witli 
copious  notes  in  1570. 


126  DON    QUIXOTE. 

University  of  Paris ;  whereby  we  may  see  that  the  lance  has 
never  blunted  the  pen,  nor  the  pen  the  lance."  ^ 

''  Well,  be  it  as  your  worship  says,"  replied  Sancho ;  "  let  us 
be  off  now  and  find  some  place  of  shelter  for  the  night,  and 
God  grant  it  may  be  somewhere  where  there  are  no  blankets, 
nor  blanketeers,  nor  phantoms,  nor  enchanted  Moors ;  for  if 
there  are,  may  the  devil  take  the  whole  concern." 

"  Ask  that  of  God,  my  son,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  ''  and  do 
thou  lead  on  where  thou  wilt,  for  this  time  I  leave  our  lodging 
to  thy  choice  ;  but  reach  me  here  thy  hand,  and  feel  with  thy 
finger,  and  find  out  how  many  of  my  teeth  and  grinders  are 
missing  from  this  right  side  of  the  upper  jaw,  for  it  is  there  I 
feel  the  pain." 

Sancho  put  in  his  fingers,  and  feeling  about  asked  him,  "  How 
many  grinders  used  your  worship  have  on  this  side  ?  " 

"  Four,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  besides  the  back-tooth,  all 
whole  and  quite  sound." 

"  Mind  what  you  are  saying,  senor,"  said  Sancho. 

"  I  say  four,  if  not  five,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  "  for  never 
in  my  life  have  I  had  tooth  or  grinder  drawn,  nor  has  any  fallen 
out  or  been  destroyed  by  any  decay  or  rheum." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Sancho,  "  in  this  lower  side  your  worship 
has  no  more  than  two  grinders  and  a  half,  and  in  the  upper 
neither  a  half  nor  any  at  all,  for  it  is  all  as  smooth  as  the  palm 
of  my  hand." 

"  Luckless  that  I  am  I  "  said  Don  Quixote,  hearing  the  sad 
news  his  squire  gave  him  ;  "  I  had  rather  they  had  despoiled 
me  of  an  arm,  so  it  were  not  the  sword-arm ;  for  I  tell  thee, 
Sancho,  a  mouth  without  teeth  is  like  a  mill  without  a  mill- 
stone, and  a  tooth  is  much  more  to  be  prized  than  a  diamond  ; 
but  we  who  profess  the  austere  order  of  chivalry  are  liable  to 
all  this.  Mount,  friend,  and  lead  the  way,  and  I  will  follow 
thee  at  whatever  pace  thou  wilt." 

Sancho  did  as  he  bade  him,  and  proceeded  in  the  direction 
ill  wliich  he  thought  he  might  find  refuge  without  quitting  the 
high  road,  which  was  there  very  much  frequented.  As  they 
went  along,  then,  at  a  slow  pace  —  for  the  pain  in  Don  Quixote's 
jaws  kept  him  uneasy  and  ill-disposed  for  speed  —  Sancho 
thought  it  well  to  amuse  and  divert  him  by  talk  of  some  kind, 
and  among  the  things  he  said  to  him  was  that  which  will  be 
told  in  the  following  chapter. 

'Prov.  125. 


CHAPTER    XIX.  127 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

OF  THE  SHREWD  DISCOURSE  WHICH  SANCHO  HELD  WITH  HIS 
MASTER,  AND  OF  THE  ADVENTURE  THAT  BEFELL  HIM  WITH  A 
DEAD    BODY,  TOGETHER  WITH   OTHER  KOTABLE  OCCURRENCES. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  seuor,  that  all  these  mishaps  that  have 
befallen  us  of  late  have  been  without  any  doubt  a  punishment 
for  the  offence  committed  by  your  worship  against  the  order 
of  chivalry  in  not  keeping  the  oath  you  made  not  to  eat  bread 
off  a  table-cloth  or  embrace  the  queen,  and  all  the  rest  of  it 
that  your  worship  swore  to  observe  until  you  had  taken  that 
helmet  of  Malandrino's,  or  whatever  the  Moor  is  called,  for  I 
do  not  very  well  remember." 

"  Thou  art  very  right,  Sancho,'*  said  Don  Quixote,  "  but  to 
tell  the  truth,  it  had  escaped  my  memory  ;  and  likewise  thou 
mayest  rely  upon  it  that  the  affair  of  the  blanket  hap})ened 
to  thee  because  of  thy  fault  in  not  reminding  me  of  it  in  time ; 
but  I  will  make  amends,  for  there  are  ways  of  compounding 
for  everything  in  the  order  of  chivalry." 

"  Why  !  have  I  taken  an  oath  of  some  sort,  then  ?  "  said 
Sancho. 

''  It  makes  no  matter  that  thou  hast  not  taken  an  oath," 
said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  suffice  it  that  I  see  thou  are  not  quite  clear 
of  complicity ;  and  whether  or  no,  it  will  not  be  ill  done  to  pro- 
vide ourselves  with  a  remedy." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  Sancho,  "  mind  that  your  worship  does 
not  forget  this  as  you  did  the  oath ;  perhaps  the  phantoms  may 
take  it  into  their  heads  to  amuse  themselves  once  more  with 
me ;  or  even  with  your  worship  if  they  see  you  so  obstinate." 

While  engaged  in  this  and  other  talk,  night  overtook  them 
on  the  road  before  they  had  reached  or  discovered  any  place  of 
shelter ;  and  what  made  it  still  worse  was  that  they  were  dying 
of  hunger,  for  with  the  loss  of  the  alforjas  they  had  lost  their 
entire  larder  and  commissariat ;  and  to  complete  the  misfortune 
they  met  with  an  adventure  which  without  any  invention  had 
really  the  appearance  of  one.  It  so  happened  that  the  night 
closed  in  somewhat  darkly,  but  for  all  that  they  pushed  on, 
Sancho  feeling  sure  that  as  the  road  was  the  king's  highway  ^ 

'  Camino  real  —  one  of  the  main  roads  connecting  the  provinces  or  chief 
cities  with  the  capital. 


128  DON    QUIXOTE. 

they  might  reasonably  expect  to  find  some  inn  within  a  league 
or  two.  Going  along,  then,  in  this  way,  the  night  dark,  the 
squire  hungry,  the  master  sharp-set,  they  saw  coming  towards 
them  on  the  road  they  were  travelling  a  great  number  of  lights 
Avhich  looked  exactly  like  stars  in  motion.  Sancho  was  taken 
aback  at  the  sight  of  them,  nor  did  Don  Quixote  altogether 
relish  them  :  the  one  pulled  up  his  ass  by  the  halter,  the  other 
his  hack  by  the  bridle,  and  they  stood  still,  watching  anxiously 
to  see  Avhat  all  this  would  turn  out  to  be,  and  found  that  the 
lights  were  approaching  them,  and  the  nearer  they  came  the 
greater  they  seemed,  at  which  spectacle  Sancho  began  to  shake 
like  a  man  dosed  with  mercury,  and  Don  Quixote's  hair  stood 
on  end ;  he,  however,  plucking  up  spirit  a  little,  said,  "  This, 
no  doubt,  Sancho,  will  be  a  most  mighty  and  perilous  advent- 
ure, in  which  it  will  be  needful  for  me  to  put  forth  all  my 
valor  and  resolution." 

^'  Unlucky  me  !  "  answered  Sancho ;  "  if  this  adventure  hap- 
pens to  be  one  of  phantoms,  as  I  am  beginning  to  think  it  is, 
where  shall  I  find  the  ribs  to  bear  it  ?  " 

"  Be  they  phantonis  ever  so  much,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  I 
will  not  permit  them  to  touch  a  thread  of  thy  garments  ;  for 
if  they  played  tricks  with  thee  the  time  before,  it  was  because 
I  was  unable  to  leap  the  walls  of  the  yard  ;  but  now  we  are  on 
a  wide  plain,  where  I  shall  be  able  to  wield  my  sword  as  I 
please." 

''  And  if  they  enchant  and  cripple  you  as  they  did  the  last 
time,"  said  Sancho,  "  what  difference  will  it  make  being  on 
the  open  plain  or  not  ? " 

"  For  all  that,"  replied  Don  Quixote, "  I  entreat  thee,  Sancho, 
to  keep  a  good  heart,  for  experience  will  tell  thee  what  mine 
is." 

"  I  will,  please  God,"  answered  Sancho,  and  the  two  retiring 
to  one  side  of  the  road  set  themselves  to  observe  closely  what 
all  these  moving  lights  might  be ;  and  very  soon  afterwards 
they  made  out  some  twenty  encamisados,^  all  on  horseback, 
with  lighted  torches  in  their  hands,  the  awe-inspiring 
aspect  of  whom  completely  extinguished  the  courage  of 
Sancho,  who  began  to  chatter  with  his  teeth  like  one  in  the 

'  Maskers  wearing  shirts  (camisas)  over  tlieir  clothes,  who  marched  in 
procession  carrying  torches  on  festival  nights.  As  there  is  no  English 
translation  of  the  word,  it  is  better  to  give  the  Spanish  instead  of  some 
roundabout  descriptive  phrase. 


CHAPTER    XIX.  129 

cold  fit  of  an  ague ;  and  his  heart  sank  and  his  teeth  chattered' 
still  more  when  they  perceived  distinctly  that  l)ehind  thenx 
there  came  a  litter  covered  over  with  black  and  followed  by 
six  more  mounted  figures  in  mourning  down  to  the  very  feet 
of  their  mules  —  for  they  could  perceive  plainly  they  were  not 
horses  by  the  easy  pace  at  which  they  went.  And  as  the  en- 
camisados  came  along  they  muttered  to  themselves  in  a  low 
plaintive  tone.  This  strange  spectacle  at  such  an  hour  and  in 
such  a  solitary  place  was  quite  enough  to  strike  terror  into 
Sancho's  heart,  and  even  into  his  master's ;  and  (save  in  Don 
Quixote's  case)  did  so,  for  all  Sancho's  resolution  had  now  broken 
down.  It  was  just  the  opposite  with  his  master,  whose  imag- 
ination immediately  conjured  up  all  this  to  him  vividly  as  one 
of  the  adventures  of  his  books.  He  took  it  into  his  head  that 
the  litter  was  a  bier  on  which  was  borne  some  sorely  wounded 
or  slain  knight,  to  avenge  whom  was  a  task  reserved  for  him 
alone ;  and  without  any  further  reasoning  he  laid  his  lance  in 
rest,  fixed  himself  firmly  in  his  saddle,  and  with  gallant  spirit 
and  bearing  took  up  his  position  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
where  the  encamisados  nnist  of  necessity  pass  ;  and  as  soon  as 
he  saw  them  near  at  hand  he  raised  his  voice  and  said,  "  Halt, 
knights,  whosoever  ye  may  be,  and  render  me  account  of  who 
ye  are,  whence  ye  come,  what  it  is  ye  carry  upon  that  bier,  for, 
to  judge  by  appearances,  either  ye  have  done  some  wrong  or 
some  wrong  has  been  done  to  you,  and  it  is  fitting  and  neces- 
sary that  I  should  know,  either  that  I  may  chastise  you  for  the 
evil  ye  have  done,  or  else  that  I  may  avenge  you  for  the  injury 
that  has  been  inflicted  upon  you." 

"  We  are  in  haste,"  answered  one  of  the  encamisados,  "  and 
the  inn  is  far  off,  and  we  can  not  stop  to  render  you  such  an 
account  as  you  demand  ;  "  and  spurring  his  mule  he  moved  on. 

Don  Quixote  was  mightily  provoked  by  this  answer,  and 
seizing  the  mule  by  the  bridle  he  said,  "  Halt,  and  be  more 
mannerly,  and  render  an  account  of  what  I  have  asked  of  you  ; 
else,  take  my  defiance  to  combat,  all  of  you." 

The  mule  was  shy,  and  was  so  frightened  at  her  bridle  being 
seized  that  rearing  up  she  flung  her  rider  to  the  ground  over 
her  haunches.  An  attendant  who  was  on  foot,  seeing  the  en- 
camisado  fall  began  to  abuse  Don  Quixote,  who  now  moved  to 
anger,  without  any  more  ado,  laying  his  lance  in  rest  charged 
one  of  the  men  in  mourning  and  brought  him  badly  wounded 
to  the  ground,  and  as  he  wheeled  round  upon  the  others  the 

Vol.  I.  —  9 


130  DON    QUIXOTE. 

agility  with  which  he  attacked  and  routed  them  was  a  sight  to 
see,  for  it  seemed  just  as  if  wings  had  that  instant  grown 
upon  Rocinante,  so  lightly  and  proudly  did  he  bear  himself. 
The  encamisados  were  all  timid  folk  and  unarmed,  so  they 
speedily  made  their  escape  from  the  fray  and  set  off  at  a  run 
across  the  plain  with  their  lighted  torches,  looking  exactly  like 
maskers  running  on  some  gala  or  festival  night.  The  mourn- 
ers, too,  enveloped  and  swathed  in  their  skirts  and  gowns,  were 
unable  to  bestir  themselves,  and  so  with  entire  safety  to  himself 
Don  Quixote  belabored  them  all  and  drove  them  off  against  their 
will,  for  they  all  thought  it  was  no  man  but  a  devil  from  hell 
come  to  carry  away  the  dead  body  they  had  in  the  litter. 

Sancho  beheld  all  this  in  astonishment  at  the  intrepidity  of 
his  lord,  and  said  to  himself,  "  Clearly  this  master  of  mine  is 
as  bold  and  valiant  as  he  says  he  is." 

A  burning  torch  lay  on  the  groimd  near  the  first  man  whom 
the  mule  had  thrown,  by  the  light  of  which  Don  Quixote  per- 
ceived him,  and  coming  up  to  him  he  presented  the  point  of 
the  lance  to  his  face,  calling  on  him  to  yield  himself  prisoner, 
or  else  he  would  kill  him  ;  to  which  the  prostrate  man  replied, 
"  I  am  prisoner  enough  as  it  is ;  I  can  not  stir,  for  one  of  my 
legs  is  broken :  I  entreat  you,  if  you  be  a  Christian  gentle- 
man, not  to  kill  me,  which  will  be  committing  grave  sacrilege, 
for  I  am  a  licentiate  and  I  hold  first  orders." 

"  Then  what  the  devil  brought  you  here,  being  a  church- 
man ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote. 

"  What,  seilor  ?  "  said  the  other.     "  My  bad  luck." 

''  Then  still  worse  awaits  you,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  if  you 
don't  satisfy  me  as  to  all  I  asked  you  at  first." 

"  You  shall  be  soon  satisfied,"  said  the  licentiate  ;  "you  must 
know,  then,  that  though  just  now  I  said  I  was  a  licentiate,  I 
am  only  a  bachelor,  and  my  name  is  Alonzo  Lopez  ;  I  am  a 
native  of  Alcobendas,  I  come  from  the  city  of  Baeza  witli 
eleven  others,  priests,  the  same  who  fled  with  the  torches,  and 
we  are  going  to  the  city  of  Segovia  accom})anying  a  dead  body 
which  is  in  that  litter  and  is  that  of  a  gentleman  who  died  in 
Baeza,  where  he  was  interred ;  and  now,  as  I  said,  we  are  tak- 
ing his  bones  to  their  burial-place,  which  is  in  Segovia,  where 
he  was  born." 

"  And  who  killed  him  ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote. 

''  God,  by  means  of  a  malignant  fever  that  took  him," 
answered  the  bachelor. 


CHAPTER    XIX.  131 

"  111  that  case/'  said  Don  (^)uixote,  "  the  Lord  has  relieved 
me  of  the  task  of  avenging  his  death  had  any  other  shiin  him  ; 
but,  he  who  sleAv  him  having  slain  him,  there  is  nothing  for  it 
but  to  be  silent,  and  shrug  one's  shoulders  ;  I  should  do  the 
same  were  he  to  slay  myself  :  and  I  would  have  your  rever- 
ence know  that  I  am  a  knight  of  La  Mancha,  Don  Quixote  by 
name,  and  it  is  my  business  and  calling  to  roam  the  world 
righting  wrongs  and  redressing  injuries." 

"  I  do  not  know  how  that  about  righting  wrongs  can  be," 
said  the  bachelor,  "  for  from  straight  you  have  made  me 
crooked,-^  leaving  me  with  a  broken  leg  that  will  never  see  itself 
straight  again  all  the  days  of  its  life  ;  and  the  injury  you  have 
redressed  in  my  case  has  been  to  leave  me  injured  in  such  a 
way  that  I  shall  remain  injured  forever  ;  and  the  height  of 
misadventure  it  was  to  fall  in  with  you  who  go  in  search  of 
adventures." 

"  Things  do  not  always  happen  in  the  same  way,''  answered 
Don  Quixote ;  "  it  all  came.  Sir  Bachelor  Alonzo  Lopez,  of  your 
going,  as  you  did,  by  night,  dressed  in  those  surplices,  with 
lighted  torches,  praying,  covered  with  mourning,  so  that  natu- 
rally you  looked  like  something  evil  and  of  the  other  world  ;  and 
so  I  could  not  avoid  doing  my  duty  in  attacking  you,  and  I 
should  have  attacked  you  even  had  I  known  positively  that  you 
were  the  very  devils  of  hell,  for  such  I  certainly  believed  and 
took  you  to  be."  '' 

"  As  my  fate  has  so  willed  it,"  said  the  bachelor,  "  I  entreat 
you,  sir  knight-errant,  whose  errand  has  been  such  an  evil  one 
for  me,  to  help  me  to  get  from  under  this  mule  that  holds  one 
of  my  legs  caught  between  the  stirrup  and  the  saddle." 

"  I  would  have  talked  on  till  to-morrow,"  said  Don  Quixote ; 
"  how  long  were  you  going  to  wait  before  telling  me  of  your 
distress  ?  " 

He  at  once  called  to  Sancho,  who,  however,  had  no  mind  to 
come,  as  he  was  just  then  engaged  in  unloading  a  sumpter  mule, 
well  laden  with  provender,  which  these  worthy  gentlemen  had 
brought  with  them.     Sancho  made  a  bag  of  his  coat,  and,  get- 

'  A  quibble  on  the  words  derecho  and  iuerto^  which  mean"  straight  "  and 
"  crooked,"  as  well  as  "  right  "  and  "  wrong." 

^  The  original  has  "  for  svich  I  always  believed,"  etc.,  which  is  an  ob- 
vious slip,  either  of  the  pen  or  of  the  jiress.  It  can  not  be  that  Cervantes 
intended  a  side  blow  at  ecclesiastics,  for  he  exjiressly  disclaims  any  such 
intention,  and  the  "  you  "  clearly  refers  to  these  particular  processionists 
alone. 


132  DON    QUIXOTE. 

ting  together  as  much  as  lie  could,  and  as  the  mule's  sack  would 
hold,  he  loaded  his  beast,  and  then  hastened  to  obey  his  master's 
call,  and  helped  him  to  remove  the  bachelor  from  under  the 
mule ;  then  putting  him  on  her  back  he  gave  him  the  torch, 
and  Don  Quixote  bade  him  follow  the  track  of  his  companions, 
and  beg  pardon  of  them  on  his  part  for  the  Avrong  which  he 
could  not  help  doing  them. 

And  said  Sancho,  "If  by  chance  these  gentlemen  should  want 
to  know  who  was  the  hero  that  served  them  so,  your  worship 
may  tell  them  that  he  is  the  famous  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha, 
otherwise  called  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance."  ^ 

The  bachelor  then  took  his  departure.  I  forgot  to  mention 
that  before  he  did  so  he  said  to  Don  Quixote,  "  Remember  that 
you  stand  excommunicated  for  having  laid  violent  hands  on  a 
holy  thing,  jiixta  ilhul,  si  qitis,  suadente  diaholoP 

"I  do  not  understand  that  Latin,"  answered  Don  Quixote, 
"  but  I  know  well  I  did  not  lay  hands,  only  on  this  pike  ;  besides, 
I  did  not  think  I  was  committing  an  assault  upon  priests  or 
things  of  the  Church,  which,  like  a  Catholic  and  faithful  Chris- 
tian as  I  am,  I  respect  and  revere,  but  upon  phantoms  and 
spectres  of  the  other  Avorld ;  but  even  so,  I  remember  how  it 
fared  with  Cid  Ruy  Diaz  when  he  broke  the  chair  of  the  ambas- 
sador of  that  king  before  his  Holiness  the  Pope  who  excommu- 
nicated him  for  the  same  ;  and  yet  the  good  Roderick  of  ]*>ivar 
bore  himself  that  dav  like  a  very  noble  and  valiant  knioht."  - 

On  hearing  this  the  bachelor  took  his  departure,  as  has 
been  said,  without  making  an}^  repl}' ;  and  Don  Quixote  asked 
Sancho  what  had  induced  him  to  call  him  the  "  Knight  of  the 
Rueful  Countenance  "  more  than  at  any  other  time. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  answered  Sancho ;  "  it  was  because  I  have 
been  looking  at  you  for  some  time  by  the  light  of  the  torch 

'  It  has  I)eon  frequently  objected  X\vAi  jigura  does  not  mean  the  face  or 
countenance,  but  the  whole  figure ;  but  no  matter  what  dictionaries  may 
say,  it  is  plain  from  what  follows  that  Sancho  applies  the  word  here  to  his 
master's /ace,  made  haggard  by  short  commons  and  loss  of  teeth,  and  uses 
it  as  synonymous  witli  cara ;  and  that  Don  Quixote  himself  never  could 
have  contemplated  painting  a  full-length  on  hi*;  shield,  but  merely  a  face. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  the  dictionaries  do  not  support  the  objec- 
tion. The  two  best,  that  of  the  Academy  and  of  Vicente  Salva,  explain 
figura  as  the  "  external  form  of  a  body,"  and  add  that  it  is  commonly  used 
for  the  face  alone,  por  solo  el  rosiro. 

^  Referring  to  tlie  apochryphal  legend  which  forms  the  subject  of  the 
l)allad,  "A  concilio  dentro  en  Roma.''  Among  Lockhart's  ballads  there  is 
a  lively  version  of  it. 


CHAPTER    MX.  138 

held  by  that  unfortunate,  and  verily  your  worship  has  got  of 
late  the  most  ill-favored  fouutenanee  I  ever  saAv  :  it  must  Ixi 
either  owing  to  the  fatigue  of  this  combat,  or  else  to  the  want 
of  teeth  and  grinders." 

"  It  is  not  that,"  replied  Don  (^Hiixote,  '•'  but  because  the  sage 
whose  duty  it  will  })e  to  write  the  history  of  my  achievenu^nts 
must  have  thought  it  })roper  that  I  shoidd  take  some  distiuc- 
tive  name  as  all  knights  of  yore  did;  one  behig-'He  of  the 
Burning  Sword,'  another  '  Pie  of  the  Unicorn,'  this  one  '  He  of 
the  Damsels/  that  '  He  of  the  Poenix,'  another  '  The  Knight  of 
the  Griffin,'  and  another  'He  of  the  Death,'  and  by  these 
names  and  designations  they  were  known  all  the  world  round ; 
and  so  I  say  that  the  sage  aforesaid  must  have  put  it  into 
your  mouth  and  mind  just  now  to  call  me  '  The  Knight  of 
the  Rueful  Countenance,'  as  I  intend  to  call  myself  from  lliis 
day  forward ;  and  that  the  said  name  may  fit  me  better,  I 
mean,  when  the  opportunity  offers,  to  have  a  very  rueful 
countenance  painted  on  my  shield." 

"  There  is  no  occasion,  sefior,  for  wasting  time  or  money  on 
making  that  countenance,"  said  Hancho  ;  "  for  all  that  need  be 
done  is  for  your  Avorship  to  show  your  own,  face  to  face,  to 
those  who  look  at  you,  and  without  anything  more,  either 
image  or  shield,  they  will  call  you  '  Him  of  the  Rueful  Counte- 
nance ;  '  and  believe  me  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  for  I  assure 
you,  seiior  (and  in  good  part  be  it  said),  hunger  and  the  loss  of 
your  grinders  have  given  you  such  an  ill-favored  face  that,  as 
I  say,  the  rueful  picture  may  be  very  well  spared." 

Don  Quixote  laughed  at  Sancho's  pleasantry ;  nevertheless 
he  resolved  to  call  himself  by  that  name,  and  have  his  shield 
or  buckler  painted  as  he  had  devised. 

Don  Quixote  would  have  looked  to  see  whether  the  body  in 
the  litter  were  bones  or  not,  but  Sancho  would  not  have  it,  say- 
ing, ''  Senor,  you  have  ended  this  perilous  adventure  more 
safely  for  yourself  than  any  of  those  I  have  seen :  perhaps 
these  people,  though  beaten  and  routed,  may  bethink  them- 
selves that  it  is  a  single  man  that  has  beaten  them,  and  feelinu' 
sore  and  ashamed  of  it  nmy  take  heart  and  come  in  search  of 
us  and  give  us  trouble  enough.  The  ass  is  in  proper  trim,  the 
mountains  are  near  at  hand,  hunger  presses,  we  have  nothing 
more  to  do  but  make  good  our  retreat,  and,  as  the  saying  is, 
let  the  dead  go  to  the  grave  and  the  living  to  the  loaf  ; '' '  and 

'  Truv.  147. 


134  DON    QUIXOTE. 

driving  liis  ass  before  Idni  he  begged  his  master  to  follow,  who, 
fee]  ing  that  Saiicho  Avas  right,  did  so  without  replying ;  and 
after  proceeding  some  little  distance  between  two  hills  they 
found  themselves  in  a  wide  and  retired  valley,  where  they 
alighted,  and  Sancho  unloaded  his  beast,  and  stretched  upon 
the  green  grass,  with  hunger  for  sauce,  they  breakfasted,  dined, 
lunched,  and  supped  all  at  once,  satisfying  their  appetites  with 
more  than  one  store  of  cold  meat  which  the  dead  man's  clerical 
gentleman  (who  seldom  put  themselves  on  short  allowance) 
had  brought  Avith  them  on  their  sumpter  mule.  But  another 
piece  of  ill-luck  befell  them,  which  Sancho  held  the  worst  of 
all,  and  that  was  that  they  had  no  wine  to  drink,  nor  even 
Avater  to  moisten  their  li})s ;  and  as  thirst  tormented  them, 
Sancho,  observing  that  the  meadow  Avhei-e  they  Avere  was 
full  of  green  and  tender  grass,  said  what  Avill  be  told  in  the 
following  chapter. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

OF  THE  UNEXAMPLED  AND  UNHEARD-OF  ADVENT UKE  WHICH 
AVAS  ACHIEA'ED  BY  THE  A^ALIANT  DON  QUIXOTE  OF  LA 
MANCHA  AVITH  LESS  TEKIL  THAN  ANY  EVER  ACHIEVED  BY 
ANY    FAMOUS    KNIGHT    IN    THE    WORLD. 

"  It  can  not  be,  senor,  l)ut  that  this  grass  is  a  proof  that 
there  must  be  hard  by  some  sj)ring  or  brook  to  give  it  moist- 
Tire,  so  it  Avould  be  Avell  to  move  a  little  farther  on,  that 
Ave  }nay  find  some  place  Avhere  Ave  may  quench  this  terrible 
thirst  that  plagues  us,  Avhich  beyond  a  doubt  is  more  distress- 
ing than  hunger.'' 

The  advice  seemed  good  to  Don  Quixote,  and,  he  leading 
Kocinante  by  the  bridle  and  Sancho  the  ass  by  the  halter, 
after  he  had  packed  away  upon  him  the  remains  of  the  supper, 
they  advanced  up  the  meadoAv  feeling  their  Avay,  for  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  inade  it  impossible  to  see  anything ;  but  they 
had  not  gone  two  hundred  paces  when  a  loud  noise  of  water, 
as  if  falling  from  great  high  rocks,  struck  their  ears.  The 
sound  cheered  them  greatly ;  but  halting  to  make  out  by 
listening  from  Avhat  quarter  it  came  they  heard  unseasonably 
another  noise  which  spoiled  ^  the  satisfaction  the  sound  of  the 

'Literally,  "  Avatered  the  satisfaction." 


CHAPTER    XX.  135 

water  gave  tlieni,  especially  for  Sancho,  who  was  by  nature 
timid  and  faint-hearted ;  they  heard,  I  say,  strokes  falling 
with  a  measured  beat,  and  a  certain  i-attling  of  iron  and  chains 
that,  together  Avith  the  furious  din  of  the  water,  would  have 
struck  terror  into  any  heart  but  Don  Quixote's.  The  night 
was,  as  has  been  said,  dark,  and  they  had  happened  to  reach 
a  spot  in  among  some  tall  trees,  whose  leaves  stirred  by  a 
gentle  breeze  made  a  low  ominous  sound ;  so  that,  what  with 
the  solitude,  the  place,  the  darkness,  the  noise  of  the  water, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves,  everything  inspired  awe  and 
dread ;  more  especially  as  they  perceived  that  the  strokes  did 
not  cease,  nor  the  wind  lull,  nor  morning  approach ;  to  all 
which  might  be  added  their  ignorance  as  to  where  they  were. 
But  Don  Quixote,  supported  by  his  intrepid  heart,  leaped  on 
Rocinante,  and  bracing  his  buckler  on  his  arm,  brought  his 
pike  to  the  slope,  and  said,  "  Friend  Sancho,  knoAv  that  I  by 
Heaven's  will  have  been  born  in  this  our  iron  age  to  revive  in 
it  the  age  of  gold,  or  the  golden  as  it  is  called ;  1  am  he  for 
whom  perils,  mighty  achievements,  and  valiant  deeds  are  re- 
served ;  I  am,  I  say  again,  he  who  is  to  revive  the  Knights  of 
the  Hound  Table,  the  Twelve  of  France  and  the  Xine  \A'orthies  ; 
and  he  who  is  to  consign  to  oblivion  the  Platirs,  the  Tablantes, 
the  Olivantes  and  Tirantes,  the  Phoibuses  and  Belianises,  with 
the  whole  herd  of  famous  knights-errant  of  days  gone  by,  per- 
forming in  these  in  which  I  live  such  exploits,  marvels,  and 
feats  of  arms  as  shall  obscure  their  brightest  deeds.  Thou 
dost  mark  well,  faithful  and  trusty  squire,  the  gloom  of  this 
night,  its  strange  silence,  the  dull  confused  murmur  of  these 
trees,  the  awful  sound  of  that  water  in  quest  of  which  we 
came,  that  seems  as  though  it  were  precipitating  and  dashing 
itself  down  from  the  lofty  mountains  of  the  moon,  and  that 
incessant  hammering  that  wounds  and  pains  our  ears ;  which 
things  all  together  and  each  of  itself  are  enough  to  instil  fear, 
dread,  and  dismay  into  the  breast  of  Mars  himself,  much  more 
into  one  not  used  to  hazai-ds  and  adventures  of  the  kind. 
AVell,  then,  all  this  that  I  put  before  thee  is  but  an  incentive 
and  stimulant  to  my  spirit,  making  my  heart  burst  in  my 
bosom  through  eagerness  to  engage  in  this  adventure,  arduous 
as  it  promises  to  be ;  therefore  tighten  Rocinante's  girths  a 
little,  and  God  be  with  thee ;  wait  for  me  here  three  days  and 
no  more,  and  if  in  that  time  I  come  not  back,  thou  canst  return 
to  our  village,  and  thence,  to  do  me  a  favor  and  a  service,  thou 


136  DON    QUIXOTE. 

wilt  go  to  El  Toboso,  where  tlioii  shalt  say  to  my  incomparable 
lady  Dulciuea  that  lier  captive  knight  hath  died,  in  attempting 
things  that  might  make  him  worthy  of  being  called  hers." 

"When  Sancho  heard  his  master's  words  he  began  to  weep  in 
the  most  pathetic  way,  saying,  "  Seiior,  I  know  not  why  your 
worship  wants  to  attempt  this  so  dreadful  adventure ;  it  is 
night  now,  no  one  sees  us  here,  we  can  easily  turn  about  and 
take  ourselves  out  of  danger,  even  if  Ave  don't  drink  for  three 
days  to  come ;  and  as  there  is  no  one  to  see  us,  all  the  lesj. 
will  there  be  any  one  to  set  us  down  as  cowards  ;  besides,  1 
have  many  a  time  heard  the  curate  of  our  village,  whom  your 
worship  knows  well,  preach  that  he  wlio  seeks  danger  perishes 
in  it ;  ^  so  it  is  not  right  to  tempt  God  by  trying  so  tremen- 
dous a  feat  from  which  there  can  be  no  escape  save  by  a 
miracle,  and  Heaven  has  performed  enough  of  them  for  your 
worship  in  delivering  you  from  being  blanketed  as  I  was,  and 
bringing  you  out  victorious  and  safe  and  sound  from  among 
all  those  enemies  that  were  Avith  the  dead  man  ;  and  if  all 
this  does  not  move  or  soften  that  hard  heart,  let  this  thought 
and  reflection  move  it,  that  you  Avill  haA'e  hardly  quitted  this 
spot  Avhen  from  pure  fear  I  shall  yield  my  soul  up  to  any  one 
that  Avill  take  it.  I  left  home  and  Avife  and  children  to  come 
and  serve  your  Avorship,  trusting  to  do  better  and  not  Avorse ; 
but,  as  covetousness  bursts  the  bag,^  it  has  rent  my  hopes 
asunder,  for  just  as  I  had  them  highest  about  getting  that 
Avretched  unlucky  island  your  Avorship  has  so  often  promised 
me,  I  see  that  instead  and  in  lieu  of  it  you  mean  to  desert  me 
noAV  in  a  place  so  far  from  hiiman  reach ;  for  God's  sake, 
master  mine,  deal  not  so  unjustly  by  me,  and  if  your  worship 
Avill  not  entirely  give  up  attempting  this  feat,  at  least  piit  it 
off  till  morning,  for  by  Avhat  the  lore  I  learned  Avhen  I  Avas  a 
shepherd  tells  me  it  can  not  Avant  three  hours  of  daAvn  uoav, 
because  the  mouth  of  the  Horn  is  overhead  and  makes  mid- 
night in  the  line  of  the -left  arm."  ^ 

'■  HoAV  canst  thou  see,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  Avhere 
it  makes  that  line,  or  Avhere  the  mouth  or  head  is  that  thou 
talkest  of,  AAdren  the  night  is  so  dark  that  there  is  not  a  star 
to  be  seen  in  the  Avhole  heaven  ?  " 

1  Prov.  170.  2  Prov.  oO. 

^  The  Horn  Sancho  refers  to  is  the  consteUation  of  Ursa  Minor,  which 
has  somewhat  tlie  shape  of  a  curved  hunting  horn,  and  the  hour  was  calcu- 
lated hy  extending  the  arms  horizontally  so  as  to  represent  a  cross,  the 
time  being  indicated  by  the  relative  position  of  tlie  Horn  to  the  arms. 


CHAPTER    XX.  137 

"  That 's  true,"  said  Sancho,  "  but  fear  lias  sharp  eyes,  and 
sees  things  underground,  much  more  above  in  the  heavens ; 
besides,  there  is  good  reason  to  show  that  it  noAV  wants  but 
little  of  day." 

"  Let  it  want  what  it  may,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  it  shall 
not  be  said  of  nie  now  or  at  any  time  that  tears  or  entreaties 
turned  me  aside  from  doing  what  was  in  accordance  with 
knightly  usage  ;  and  so  I  beg  of  thee,  Sancho,  to  hold  thy 
peace,  for  God,  who  has  i)ut  it  into  my  heart  to  undertake  now 
this  so  unexampled  and  terrible  adventure,  will  take  care  to 
watch  over  my  safety  and  console  thy  sorrow  ;  what  thou  hast 
to  do  is  to  tighten  llocinante's  girths  well,  and  wait  here,  for 
I  shall  come  back  shortly,  alive  or  dead." 

Sancho  perceiving  it  his  master's  final  resolve,  and  how 
little  his  tears,  counsels,  and  entreaties  prevailed  with  him, 
determined  to  have  recourse  to  his  own  ingenuity  and  compel 
him  if  he  could  to  wait  till  daylight ;  and  so,  while  tightening 
the  girths  of  the  horse,  he  quietly  and  without  being  fe]t,  tied 
both  liocinante's  fore-legs,  so  that  when  Don  Quixote  strove  to 
go  he  was  unable  as  the  horse  could  only  move  by  jumps. 
Seeing  the  success  of  his  trick,  Sancho  Panza  said,  "  See  there, 
senor !  Heaven,  moved  by  my  tears  and  prayers,  has  so 
ordered  it  that  liocinante  can  not  stir  ;  and  if  you  will  be 
obstinate,  and  spur  and  strike  him,  you  will  only  provoke 
fortune,  and  kick,  as  they  say,  against  the  pricks." 

Don  Quixote  at  this  grcAV  desperate,  but  the  more  he  drove 
his  heels  into  the  horse,  the  less  he  stirred  him ;  and  not  hav- 
ing any  suspicion  of  the  tying,  he  was  fain  to  resign  himself 
and  wait  till  daybreak  or  until  Rocinante  could  move,  firmly 
persuaded  that  all  this  came  of  something  other  than  Sancho's 
ingenuity.  So  he  said  to  him,  "  As  it  is  so,  Sancho,  and  as 
Eocinante  can  not  move,  I  am  content  to  wait  till  dawn  smiles 
upon  us,  even  though  I  weep  while  it  delays  its  coming." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  weep,"  answered  Sancho,  "  for  I  will 
amuse  your  worship  by  telling  stories  from  this  till  daylight, 
unless,  indeed,  you  like  to  dismount  and  lie  down  to  sleep  a 
little  on  the  green  grass  after  the  fashion  of  knights-errant,  so 
as  to  be  freslier  when  day  comes  and  the  moment  arrives  for 
attempting  this  extraordinary  adventure  you  are  looking 
forward  to." 

''  What  art  thou  talking  aboiit  dismounting  or  sleeping  for  '■'  " 
said  Don  Quixote.     ^'  Am  I,  thinkest  thou,  one  of  those  knights 


138  DON    QUIXOTE. 

that  take  their  rest  in  the  presence  of  danger  ?  Sleep  thou 
who  art  born  to  sleep,  or  do  as  thou  wilt,  for  I  Avill  act  as  I 
think  most  consistent  with  my  character." 

''  Be  not  angry,  master  mine,"  replied  Sancho,  "  I  did  not 
mean  to  say  that ;  "  and  coming  close  to  him  he  laid  one  hand 
on  the  pommel  of  the  saddle  and  the  other  on  the  cantle,  so 
that  he  held  his  master's  left  thigli  in  his  embrace,  not  daring 
to  separate  a  finger's  length  from  him ;  so  much  afraid  was  he 
of  the  strokes  which  still  resounded  with  a  regular  beat.  Don 
Quixote  bade  him  tell  some  story  to  amuse  him  as  he  had 
l)roposed,  to  which  Sancho  replied  that  he  would  if  his  dread 
of  what  he  heard  would  let  him;  ''Still,"  said  he,  "I  will 
strive  to  tell  a  story  which,  if  I  can  manage  to  relate  it,  and 
it  escapes  me  not,  is  the  best  of  stories,  and  let  your  worship 
give  me  your  attention,  for  here  I  begin.  What  was,  was  ;  ^ 
and  may  the  good  that  is  to  come  be  for  all,  and  the  evil  for  him 
who  goes  to  look  for  it  —  your  worship  must  know  that  the 
beginning  the  old  folk  used  to  put  to  their  tales  was  not  just 
as  each  one  pleased  ;  it  was  a  maxim  of  Cato  Zonzorino  ^  the 
Roman  that  says  'the  evil  for  him  that  goes  to  look  for  it,' 
and  it  comes  as  pat  to  the  purpose  now  as  ring  to  finger,  to  show 
that  your  worship  should  keep  quiet  and  not  go  looking  for 
evil  in  any  quarter,  and  that  we  should  go  back  by  some  other 
road,  since  nobody  forces  us  to  follow  this  in  which  so  many 
terrors  affright  us." 

"  Go  on  with  thy  story,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and 
leave  the  choice  of  our  road  to  my  care." 

*'  I  say  then,"  continued  Sancho,  "  that  in  a  village  of  Es- 
tremadura  there  was  a  goat-shepherd  —  that  is  to  say,  one  who 
tended  goats  —  which  shepherd  or  goat-herd,  as  my  story  goes, 
was  called  Lope  Ruiz,  and  this  Lope  Ruiz  was  in  love  with  a 
shepherdess  called  Torralva,  which  shepherdess  called  Torralva 
was  the  daughter  of  a  rich  grazier,  and  this  rich  grazier  "  — 

"  If  that  is  the  way  thou  tellest  thy  tale,  Sancho,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  ''  repeating  twice  all  thou  hast  to  say,  thou  wilt  not 
have  done  these  two  days  ;  go  straight  on  with  it,  and  tell  it 
like  a  reasonable  man,  or  else  say  nothing." 

"  Tales  are  always  told  in  my  country  in  the  very  way  I  am 

'  Prov.  96. 

^  i.e.  Caton  Censorino  —  Cato  the  Censor ;  but  Sancho's  impression 
was  that  the  name  was  derived  from  zonzo,  "  stupid,"  or  zonzorrion.,  "  a 
blockhead." 


CTIAPTFJi    XX.  139 

telling  this,"  answered  Sancho,  "  and  I  can  not  tell  it  in  any- 
other,  nor  is  it  right  of  your  worship  to  ask  me  to  make  new 
customs." 

"  Tell  it  as  thou  wilt,"  replied  Don  Quixote  ;  "  and  as  fate  will 
have  it  that  I  can  not  help  listening  to  thee,  go  on." 

"  And  so,  lord  of  my  soul,"  continued  Sancho,  "  as  I  have 
said,  this  shepherd  was  in  love  with  Torralva  the  shepherdess, 
who  was  a  wild  buxom  lass  with  something  of  the  look  of  a 
man  about  her,  for  she  had  little  mustaches ;  I  fancy  I  see  her 
now." 

''  Then  you  knew  her  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  did  not  know  her, "  said  Sancho,  "•  but  he  who  told  me 
the  story  said  it  was  so  true  and  certain  that  when  I  told  it  to 
another  I  might  safely  declare  and  swear  I  had  seen  it  all  my- 
self. And  so  in  course  of  time,  the  devil,  who  never  sleeps 
and  puts  everything  in  confusion,  contrived  that  the  love  the 
shepherd  bore  the  shepherdess  turned  into  hatred  and  ill-will, 
and  the  reason,  according  to  evil  tongues,  was  some  little 
jealousy  she  had  caused  him  that  crossed  the  line  and  tres- 
passed on  forbidden  ground ;  ^  and  so  much  did  the  shepherd  hate 
her  from  that  time  forward  that,  in  order  to  escape  from  her, 
he  determined  to  quit  the  country  and  go  where  he  should 
never  set  eyes  on  her  again.  Torralva,  when  she  found  her- 
self spurned  by  Lope,  was  immediately  smitten  with  love  for 
him,  though  she  had  never  loved  him  before." 

"  That  is  the  natural  way  of  women,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  to  scorn  the  one  that  loves  them,  and  love  the  one  that  hates 
them  :  go  on,  Sancho." 

"  It  came  to  pass,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  the  .shepherd  carried 
out  his  intention,  and  driving  his  goats  before  him  took  his 
way  across  the  plains  of  Estremadura  to  pass  over  into  the 
Kingdom  of  Portugal.  Torralva,  who  knew  of  it,  went  after 
him,  and  on  foot  and  barefooted  followed  him  at  a  distance, 
with  a  pilgrim's  staff  in  her  hand  and  a  scrip  round  her  neck, 
in  which  she  carried,  it  is  said,  a  bit  of  looking-glass,  and  a 
piece  of  a  comb  and  some  little  pot  or  other  of  paint  for  her 
face  ;  but  let  her  carry  what  she  did,  I  am  not  going  to  trouble 
myself  to  prove  it ;  all  I  say  is,  that  the  shepherd,  they  say, 
came  with  his  flock  to  cross  over  the  river  Guadiana,  whicli 
was  at  that  time  swollen  and  almost  overflowing  its  banks, 
and  at  the  spot  he  came  to  there  was  neither  ferry  nor  boat  nor 

»  Prov,  198. 


140  DON    QUIXOTE. 

any  one  to  carry  him  or  his  flock  to  the  other  side,  at  which 
he  was  much  vexed,  for  he  perceived  that  Torralva  was  ap- 
proaching and  woukl  give  him  great  annoyance  Avith  her  tears 
and  entreaties  ;  however,  he  went  kioking  abont  so  closely  that 
he  discovered  a  fisherman  who  had  alongside  of  him  a  boat  so 
small  that  it  could  only  hold  one  person  and  one  goat ;  but  for 
all  that  he  spoke  to  him  and  agreed  with  him  to  carry  himself 
and  his  three  hundred  goats  across.  The  fisherman  got  into  the 
boat  and  carried  one  goat  over ;  he  came  back  and  carried 
another  over  ;  he  came  back  again,  and  again  brought  over 
another  —  let  your  worship  keep  count  of  the  goats  the  fisher- 
man is  taking  across,  for  if  one  escapes  the  memory  there  will 
be  an  end  of  the  story,  and  it  will  be  impossible  to  tell  another 
word  of  it.  To  proceed,  I  must  tell  you  the  landing  place  on 
the  other  side  was  miry  and  slippery,  and  the  fisherman  lost  a 
great  deal  of  time  in  going  and  coming  ;  still  he  returned  for 
another  goat,  and  another,  and  another." 

"  Take  it  for  granted  he  brought  them  all  across,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  and  don't  keep  going  and  coming  in  this  Ava}-,  or 
thou  wilt  not  make  an  end  of  bringing  them  over  this  twelve- 
month." 

'■'■  How  many  have  gone  across  so  far  ?  "  said  Sancho. 

"  How  the  devil  do  I  know  ?  "  replied  Don  Quixote. 

"  There  it  is,"  said  Sancho,  "  what  I  told  yoii,  that  you  miist 
keep  a  good  count ;  well  then,  by  God,  there  is  an  end  of  the 
story,  for  there  is  no  going  any  farther." 

"  How  can  that  be  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  is  it  so  essential 
to  the  story  to  know  to  a  nicety  the  goats  that  have  crossed 
over,  that  if  there  be  a  mistake  of  one  in  the  reckoning,  thou 
canst  not  go  on  with  it  ?  " 

"  No,  senor,  not  a  bit,"  replied  Sancho  ;  "  for  when  I  asked 
your  worship  to  tell  me  how  many  goats  had  crossed,  and  you 
answered  you  did  not  know,  at  that  very  instant  all  I  had  to 
say  passed  away  out  of  my  memory,  and  faith,  there  was  much 
virtue  in  it,  and  entertainment." 

"  So,  then,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  the  story  has  come  to  an 
end  ?  " 

"  As  much  as  my  mother  has,"  said  Sancho. 

''  In  truth,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  thou  hast  told  one  of  the 
rarest  stories,  tales,  or  histories,  that  any  one  in  the  world 
could  have  imagined,  and  such  a  way  of  telling  it  and  ending 
it  was  never  seen  nor  will  be  in  a  lifetime  ;  though  I  expected 


CHAPTER    XX.  141 

nothing  else  from  thy  excellent  nnderstanding.  But  I  do  not 
wonder,  for  perhaps  those  ceaseless  strokes  may  have  confused 
thy  wits." 

"  All  that  may  be,"  replied  Sancho,  "  but  I  know  that  as  to 
my  story,  all  that  can  be  said  is  that  it  ends  there  where  the 
mistake  in  the  count  of  the  passage  of  the  goats  ^  begins." 

"  Let  it  end  where  it  will,  well  and  good,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  and  let  us  see  if  Rocinaute  can  go  ;  "  and  again  he  spurred 
him,  and  again  Eocinante  made  jumps  and  remained  where  he 
was,  so  well  tied  was  he. 

Just  then,  Avhether  it  was  the  cold  of  the  morning  that  was 
now  approaching,  or  that  he  had  eaten  something  laxative  at 
supper,  or  that  it  was  only  natural  (as  is  most  likely),  Sancho 
felt  a  desire  to  do  what  no  one  could  do  for  him ;  l)ut  so  great 
was  the  fear  that  had  penetrated  his  heart,  he  dared  not  sep- 
arate himself  from  his  master  by  so  much  as  the  black  of  his 
nail ;  to  escape  doing  what  he  wanted  was,  however,  also  im- 
possible ;  so  what  he  did  for  peace'  sake  was  to  remove  his 
right  hand,  which  held  the  back  of  the  saddle,  and  with  it  to 
untie  gently  and  silently  the  running  string  which  alone  held 
up  his  breeches,  so  that  on  loosening  it  they  at  once  fell  down 
round  his  feet  like  fetters  ;  he  then  raised  his  shirt  as  well  as 
he  could  and  bared  his  hind  (piarters,  no  slim  ones.  But  this 
accomplished,  which  he  fancied  was  all  he  had  to  do  to  get  out 
of  this  terrible  strait  and  embarrassment,  another  still  greater 
difficulty  presented  itself,  for  it  seemed  to  him  impossible  to 
relieve  himself  without  making  some  noise,  and  he  ground  his 
.  teeth  and  squeezed  his  shoulders  together,  holding  his  breath 
as  much  as  he  could ;  but  in  spite  of  his  precautions  he  was 
imlucky  enough  after  all  to  make  a  little  noise,  very  different 
from  that  which  was  causing  him  so  much  fear. 

Don  Quixote,  hearing  it,  said,  "  What  noise  is  that,  Sancho  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  senor,"  said  he  ;  "  it  must  be  something  new, 
for  adventures  and  misadventures  never  begin  with  a  trifle." 
Once  more  he  tried  his  luck,  and  succeeded  so  well,  that  with- 
out any  further  noise  or  disturbance  he  found  himself  relieved 
of  the  burden  that  had  given  him  so  much  discomfort.  But 
as  Don  Quixote's  sense  of  smell  was  as  acute  as  his  hearing, 

•  The  story  of  the  passage  of  the  goats  is  a  very  ohl  one.  It  is  the  30tli 
of  tlie  Cento  Norelle  Antiche,  into  which  it  was  imported,  no  doubt,  from 
the  Latin  of  the  Aragonese  Jew,  Pedro  Alfonso.  There  is  a  Proven9al 
tale  to  the  same  effect :   but  the  original  was  probably  Oriental. 


142  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  as  Saucho  was  so  closely  linked  with  him  that  the  fumes 
rose  almost  in  a  straight  line,  it  could  not  be  but  that  some 
should  reach  his  nose,  and  as  soon  as  they  did  he  came  to  its 
relief  by  compressing  it  between  his  fingers,  saying  in  a  rather 
snuffling  tone,  ''  Sanclio,  it  strikes  me  thou  art  in  great  fear." 

"  I  am,"  answered  Sancho ;  "  but  how  does  your  worship 
perceive  it  now  more  than  ever  ?  " 

"  Because  just  now  thou  sniellest  stronger  than  ever,  and  not 
of  ambergris,"  answered  Don  Quixote. 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Sancho,  "  but  that 's  not  my  fault,  but 
your  worship's,  for  leading  me  about  at  unseasonable  hours  and 
at  such  unwonted  paces." 

"  Then  go  back  three  or  four,  my  friend,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
all  the  time  with  his  fingers  to  his  nose ;  "  and  for  the  future 
pay  more  attention  to  thy  person  and  to  what  thou  owest  to 
mine ;  for  it  is  my  great  familiarity  with  thee  that  has  bred 
this  contempt." 

"  I  '11  bet,"  replied  Sancho,  "  that  your  worship  thinks  I  have 
done  something  I  ought  not  with  my  person." 

"  It  makes  it  worse  to  stir  it,  friend  Sancho,"  returned  Don 
Quixote. 

With  this  and  other  talk  of  the  same  sort  master  and  man 
passed  the  night,  till  Sancho,  perceiving  that  daybreak  was 
coming  on  apace,  very  cautiously  untied  liocinante  and  tied  up 
his  breeches.  As  soon  as  Rocinante  found  himself  free,  though 
by  nature  he  was  not  at  all  mettlesome,  he  seemed  to  feel  lively 
and  began  pawing  —  for  as  to  capering,  begging  his  pardon,  he 
knew  not  what  it  meant.  Don  Quixote,  then,  observing  that 
Rocinante  could  move,  took  it  as  a  good  sign  and  a  signal  that 
he  should  attempt  the  dread  adventure.  By  this  time  day 
had  fully  broken  and  everything  showed  distinctly,  and  Don 
Quixote  saw  that  he  was  among  some  tall  trees,  chestnuts, 
which  cast  a  very  deep  shade ;  he  perceived  likewise  that  the 
sound  of  the  strokes  did  not  cease,  but  could  not  discover  what 
caused  it,  and  so  without  any  further  delay  he  let  Rocinante 
feel  the  spur,  and  once  more  taking  leave  of  Sancho,  he  told 
him  to  wait  for  him  there  three  days  at  most,  as  he  had  said 
before,  and  if  he  should  not  have  returned  by  that  time,  he 
might  feel  sure  it  had  been  God's  will  that  he  shoidd  end  his 
days  in  that  perilous  adventure.  He  again  repeated  the  mes- 
sage and  commission  with  which  he  was  to  go  on  his  behalf  to 
his  lad}-  Dulcinea.  and  said  he  was  not  to  be  uneasy  as  to  the 


CHAPTER    XX.  143 

payment  of  his  services,  for  before  leaving  home  he  liad  made 
liis  will,  in  which  he  would  find  himself  fully  recompensed  in 
the  matter  of  wages  in  due  proportion  to  the  time  he  had 
served  ;  but  if  God  delivered  him  safe,  sound,  and  unhurt  out 
of  that  danger,  he  might  look  upon  the  promised  island  as. 
much  more  than  certain.  Sancho  began  weeping  afresh  on 
again  hearing  the  affecting  words  of  his  good  master,  and  re- 
solved to  stay  with  him  luitil  the  final  issue  and  end  of  the 
business.  From  these  tears  and  this  honorable  resolve  of 
Sancho  Panza's  the  author  of  this  history  infers  that  he  must 
have  been  of  good  birth  and  at  least  an  old  Christian  ;  ^  and 
the  feeling  he  displayed  touched  his  master  somewliat,  but  not 
so  much  as  to  make  him  show  any  weakness ;  on  the  contrary, 
hiding  what  he  felt  as  well  as  he  could,  he  began  to  move 
towards  that  quarter  whence  the  sound  of  the  water  and  of  the 
strokes  seemed  to  come. 

Sancho  followed  him  on  foot,  leading  by  the  halter,  as  his 
custom  was,  his  ass,  his  constant  comrade  in  prosperity  or 
adversity  ;  and  advancing  some  distance  through  the  shady 
chestnut  trees  they  came  upon  a  little  meadow  at  the  foot  of 
some  high  rocks,  down  which  a  mighty  rush  of  water  flung  it- 
self. At  the  foot  of  the  rocks  were  some  rudely  constructed 
houses  looking  more  like  ruins  than  houses,  from  among  which 
came,  they  perceived,  the  din  and  clatter  of  blows,  which  still 
continued  without  intermission.  Rocinante  took  fright  at  the 
noise  of  the  water  and  of  the  blows,  but  quieting  him  Don 
Quixote  advanced  step  by  step  towards  the  houses,  commend- 
ing himself  with  all  his  heart  to  his  lady,  imploring  her  sup- 
port in  that  dread  pass  and  enterprise,  and  on  the  way 
commending  himself  to  God,  too,  not  to  forget  him.  Sancho, 
who  never  quitted  his  side,  stretched  his  neck  as  far  as  he 
could  and  peered  between  the  legs  of  Rocinante  to  see  if  he 
could  now  discover  what  it  was  that  caused  him  such  fear  and 
apprehension.  They  went  it  might  be  a  hundred  paces  farther, 
when  on  turning  a  corner  the  true  cause,  beyond  the  possibility 
of  any  mistake,  of  that  dread-sounding  and  to  them  awe-in- 
spiring noise  that  had  kept  them  all  the  night  in  such  fear  and 
perplexity,  appeared  plain  and  obvious ;  and  it  was  (if,  reader, 
thou  art  not  disgusted  and  disappointed)  six  fulling  hammers 
which  by  their  alternate  strokes  made  all  the  din. 

'  An  "  old  Christian  "  -was  one  who  had  no  trace  of  Moorish  blood  in  his 
veins.  The  remark  is  somewhat  inconsistent  in  the  mouth  of  Cid  Hamet 
Benengeli. 


144  DON    QUIXOTE. 

When  Don  Quixote  perceived  what  it  was,  he  was  struck 
dumb  and  rigid  from  head  to  foot.  Sancho  glanced  at  him 
and  saw  him  with  his  head  bent  down  upon  his  breast  in  mani- 
fest mortification;  and  Don  Quixote  glanced  at  Sancho  and 
saw  him  Avith  his  cheeks  puffed  out  and  his  mouth  full  of 
laughter,  and  evidently  ready  to  explode  with  it,  and  in  spite 
of  his  vexation  he  could  not  help  laughing  at  the  sight  of  him ; 
and  when  Sancho  saw  his  master  begin  he  let  go  so  heartily 
that  he  had  to  liold  his  sides  with  both  hands  to  keep  himself 
from  bursting  with  laughter.  Four  times  he  stopped,  and  as 
many  times  did  his  laughter  break  out  afresh  with  the  same 
violence  as  at  first,  whereat  Don  Quixote  grew  furious,  above 
all  when  he  heard  him  say  mockingly,  ''  Thou  must  know, 
friend  Sancho,  that  of  Heaven's  will  I  was  born  in  this  our 
iron  age  to  revive  in  it  the  golden  or  age  of  gold ;  I  am  he  for 
whom  are  reserved  perils,  mighty  achievements,  valiant  deeds  ;  " 
and  here  he  went  on  repeating  all  or  most  of  the  words  that 
Don  Quixote  uttered  the  first  time  they  heard  the  awful 
strokes. 

Don  Quixote,  then,  seeing  that  Sancho  was  turning  him  into 
ridicule,  was  so  mortified  and  vexed  that  he  lifted  up  his  pike 
and  smote  him  two  such  blows  that  if,  instead  of  catching 
them  on  his  shoulders,  he  had  caught  them  on  his  head,  there 
would  have  been  no  wages  to  pay,  unless  indeed  to  his  heirs. 
Sancho  seeing  that  he  was  getting  an  awkward  return  in  earnest 
for  his  jest,  and  fearing  his  master  might  carry  it  still  further, 
said  to  him  very  humbly,  "  Calm  yourself,  sir.  for  by  God  I  am 
only  joking." 

"Well,  then,  if  you  are  joking  I  am  not,"  replied  Don 
Quixote.  "  Look  here,  my  lively  gentleman,  if  these,  instead 
of  being  fulling  hammers,  had  been  some  perilous  adventure, 
have  I  not,  think  yoii,  shown  the  courage  required  for  the  at- 
tempt and  achievement  ?  Am  I,  perchance,  bemg,  as  I  am,  a 
gentleman,  bound  to  know  and  distinguish  sounds  and  tell 
whether  they  come  from  fulling  mills  or  not ;  and  that,  when 
perhaps,  as  is  the  case,  I  have  never  in  my  life  seen  any  as 
you  have,  low  boor  as  you  are,  that  have  been  born  and  bred 
among  them  ?  But  turn  me  these  six  hammers  into  six  giants, 
and  bring  them  to  beard  me,  one  by  one  or  all  together,  and  if 
I  do  not  knock  them  head  over  heels,  then  make  what  mockery 
you  like  of  me." 

"No  more  of  that,  senor,"  returned  Sancho  ;  "I  own  I  went 


CHAPTER    XX.  145 

a  little  too  far  Avitli  the  joke.  But  tell  me,  your  worship,  now 
that  peace  is  made  between  us  (and  may  God  bring  you  out  of 
all  the  adventures  that  may  befall  you  as  safe  and  sound  as  he 
has  brought  you  out  of  this  one),  was  it  not  a  thing  to  laiigli  at, 
and  is  it  not  a  good  story,  the  great  fear  we  were  in?  —  at  least 
that  I  was  in  ;  for  as  to  your  worship  I  see  now  that  you  neither 
know  nor  understand  what  either  fear  or  dismay  is." 

"  I  "do  not  deny,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  that  what  happened  to 
us  may  be  worth  laughing  at,  but  it  is  not  worth  making  a  story 
about,  for  it  is  not  every  one  that  is  shrewd  enough  to  hit  the 
right  point  of  a  thing." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Sancho,  "  your  worship  knew  how  to  hit 
the  right  point  with  your  pike,  aiming  at  my  head  and  hitting 
me  on  the  shoulders,  thanks  be  to  God  and  my  own  smartness 
in  dodging  it.  But  let  that  pass  ;  all  will  come  out  in  the 
scouring ;  ^  for  I  have  heard  say  '  he  loves  thee  well  that  makes 
thee  weep  ;  '  '-^  and  moreover  that  it  is  the  way  with  great  lords 
after  any  hard  words  they  give  a  servant  to  give  him  a  pair  of 
breeches  ;  though  I  do  not  know  what  they  give  after  blows-, 
unless  it  be  that  knights-errant  after  blows  give  islands,  or 
kingdoms  on  the  mainland." 

"  It  may  be  on  the  dice,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  that  all  thou 
sayest  will  come  true  ;  overlook  the  past,  for  thou  art  shrewd 
enough  to  know  that  our  first  movements  are  not  in  our  own 
control ;  and  one  thing  for  the  future  bear  in  mind,  that  thou 
curb  and  restrain  thy  loquacity  in  my  company  ;  for  in  all  the 
books  of  chivalry  that  I  have  read,  and  they  are  innumerable, 
I  never  met  with  a  squire  who  talked  so  much  to  his  lord  as 
thou  dost  to  thine ;  and  in  fact  I  feel  it  to  be  a  great  fault  of 
thine  and  of  mine  :  of  thine,  that  thou  hast  so  little  respect  for 
me ;  of  mine,  that  I  do  not  make  myself  more  respected.  There 
was  Gandalin,  the  squire  of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  that  was  Count  of 
the  Insula  Firme,'''  and  we  read  of  him  that  he  always  addressed 
his  lord  Avith  his  cap  in  his  hand,  his  head  bowed  down  and 
his  body  bent  double,  more  turqucsco.  And  then,  what  shall 
we  say  of  Gasabal,  the  squire  of  Galaor,  who  was  so  silent  that 
in  order  to  indicate  to  us  the  greatness  of  his  marvellous  taci- 
turnity his  name  is  only  once  mentioned  in  the  whole  of  that 
history,  as  long  as  it  is  truthful  ?  *     From  all  I  have  said  thou 

1  Prov.  ,58.  2  Prov.  130. 

^  The  "  Insula  Firme  "  was  apparently  part  of  Brittan}-. 

''  The  Rev.  John  Bowie,  the  learned  editor  and  annotator  of  Don  Qui- 
xote, was  painstaking  enough   to    verify  this  statement.      It    shows  how 
closely  Cervantes  must  have  at  one  time  read  the  Amadis- 
Vol.  I.  — 10 


146  DON    QUIXOTE. 

wilt  gather,  Sanclio,  that  there  must  be  a  difference  between 
master  and  man,  between  lord  and  lackey,  between  knight  and 
squire :  so  that  from  this  day  forward  in  our  intercourse  we 
must  observe  more  respect  and  take  less  liberties,  for  in  what- 
ever way  I  may  be  provoked  with  you  it  will  be  bad  for  the 
pitcher.^  The  favors  and  benefits  that  I  have  promised  you 
will  come  in  due  time,  and  if  they  do  not  your  wages  at  least 
will  not  be  lost,  as  I  have  already  told  you." 

"  All  that  your  worship  says  is  very  well,"  said  Sancho, 
"  but  I  should  like  to  know  (in  case  the  time  of  favors  shoiild 
not  come,  and  it  might  be  necessary  to  fall  back  upon  wages)  how 
much  did  the  squire  of  a  knight-errant  get  in  those  days,  and 
did  they  agree  by  the  month,  or  by  the  day  like  bricklayers  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  believe,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  that  such  squires 
were  ever  on  wages,  but  were  dependent  on  favor  ;  and  if  I 
have  now  mentioned  thine  in  the  sealed  will  I  have  left  at 
home,  it  was  with  a  view  to  what  may  happen  ;  for  as  yet  I 
know  not  how  chivalry  will  turn  out  in  these  wretched  times 
of  ours,  and  I  do  not  wish  my  soul  to  suffer  for  trifles  in  the 
other  world  ;  for  I  would  have  thee  know,  Sancho,  that  in  this 
there  is  no  condition  more  hazardous  than  that  of  adventures." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Sancho,  "  since  the  mere  noise  of  the 
hammers  of  a  fulling  mill  can  disturb  and  disquiet  the  heart  of 
such  a  valiant  errant  adventurer  as  your  worship  ;  but  yoii  may 
be  sure  I  will  not  open  my  lips  henceforward  to  make  light  of 
anything  of  your  worship's,  but  only  to  honor  you  as  my 
master  and  natural  lord." 

"  By  so  doing,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  shalt  thou  live  long  on 
the  face  of  the  earth  ;  for  next  to  parents,  masters  are  to  be 
respected  as  though  they  were  parents." 

'  Prov.  34.  In  full  it  is.  "  Whether  the  pitcher  liits  the  stone,  or  the 
stone  the  pitcher,  it 's  bad  for  the  pitcher." 


CHAPTER    XXI.  147 


CHAPTER     XXI. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  EXALTED  ADVENTURE  AND  RICH  PRIZE 
OF  MAMBRINO'S  HELMET,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER  THINGS 
THAT    HAPPENED    TO    OUR    INVINCIBLE    KNIGHT. 

It  now  began  to  rain  a  little,  and  8ancho  was  for  going 
into  the  fulling  mills,  but  Don  Quixote  had  taken  such  a 
disgust  to  them  on  account  of  the  late  joke  that  he  would 
not  enter  them  on  any  account ;  so  turning  aside  to  the  right 
they  came  upon  another  road,  different  from  that  which  they 
had  taken  the  night  before.  Shortly  afterwards  Don  Quixote 
perceived  a  man  on  horseback  who  wore  on  his  head  something 
that  shone  like  gold,  and  the  moment  he  saw  him  he  turned  to 
Sancho  and  said,  "  I  think,  Sancho,  there  is  no  proverb  that  is 
not  true,  all  being  maxims  drawn  from  experience  itself,  the 
mother  of  all  the  sciences,  especially  that  one  that  says, 
<  Where  one  door  shuts,  another  opens.'  ^  I  say  so  because  if 
last  night  fortune  shut  the  door  of  the  adventure  we  were  looking 
for  against  us,  cheating  us  with  the  fulling  mills,  it  now  opens 
wide  another  one  for  another  better  and  more  certain  adventure, 
and  if  I  do  not  contrive  to  enter  it,  it  will  be  my  own  fault, 
and  I  cannot  lay  it  to  my  ignorance  of  fulling  mills,  or  the 
darkness  of  the  night.  I  say  this  because,  if  I  mistake  not, 
there  conies  toward  us  one  who  wears  on  his  head  the  helmet 
of  Mambrino,  concerning  which  I  took  the  oath  thou  remem- 
berest." 

'•'  Mind  what  you  say,  your  worship,  and  still  more  what  yo\i 
do,"  said  Sancho,  "■  for  I  don't  want  any  more  fulling  mills  to 
finish  off  fulling  and  knocking  our  senses  out." 

''  The  devil  take  thee,  man,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  what  has 
a  helmet  to  do  with  fulling  mills  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Sancho,  "but,  faith,  if  I  might 
speak  as  I  used,  perhaps  I  could  give  such  reasons  that  your 
worship  would  see  you  were  mistaken  in  what  you  say." 

"  How  can  I  be  mistaken  in  what  I  say,  unbelieving  traitor  ?  " 
returned  Don  Quixote ;  "  tell  me,  seest  thou  not  yonder  knight 
coming  towards  us  on  a  dappled  gray  steed,  who  has  upon  his 
head  a  helmet  of  gold  ?  " 

"What  I  see  and  make  out,"  answered  Sancho,  "  is  only  a 

'  Trov.  194. 


148  DON    QUIXOTE. 

man  on  a  gray  ass  like  my  own,  who  has  something  that  shines 
on  his  head." 

"  Well,  that  is  the  helmet  of  Mambrino,"  said  Don  Quixote ; 
"  stand  to  one  side  and  leave  me  alone  with  him  ;  thou  shalt 
see  how,  without  saying  a  word,  to  save  time,  I  shall  bring  this 
adventure  to  an  issue  and  possess  myself  of  the  helmet  I  have 
so  longed  for." 

"  I  will  take  care  to  stand  aside,"  said  Sancho ;  "  but  God 
grant,  I  say  once  more,  that  it  may  be  marjoram  and  not  full- 
ing mills."  •* 

"  I  have  told  thee,  brother,  on  no  accoimt  to  mention  those 
fulling  mills  to  me  again,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  or  I  vow  —  and 
I  say  no  more  — I  '11  full  the  soul  out  of  you." 

Sancho  held  his  peace  in  dread  lest  his  master  should  carry 
out  the  vow  he  had  hurled  like  a  bowl  at  him. 

The  fact  of  the  matter  as  regards  the  helmet,  steed,  and 
knight  that  Don  Quixote  saw,  was  this.  In  that  neighborhood 
there  were  two  villages,  one  of  them  so  small  that  it  had  neither 
apothecary's  shop,  nor  barber,  Avhich  the  other  that  was  close 
to  it  had,  so  the  barber  of  the  larger  served  the  smaller,  and  in 
it  there  was  a  sick  man  who  required  to  be  bled  and  another 
man  who  wanted  to  be  shaved,  and  on  this  errand  the  barber 
was  going,  carrying  with  him  a  brass  basin ;  but  as  luck  would 
have  it,  as  he  was  on  the  way  it  began  to  rain,  and  not  to  spoil 
his  hat,  which  probably  was  a  new  one,  he  put  the  basin  on  his 
head,  and  being  clean  it  glittered  at  half  a  league's  distance. 
He  rode  upon  a  gray  ass,  as  Sancho  said,  and  this  was  what 
made  it  seem  to  Don  Qiiixote  to  be  a  dapple-gray  steed  and  a 
knight  and  a  golden  helmet;  for  everything  he  saw  he  made 
to  fall  in  with  his  crazy  chivalry  and  ill  errant  "^  notions ;  and 
when  he  saw  the  poor  knight  draw  near,  without  entering 
into  any-  parley  with  him,  at  Rocinante's  top  speed  he  bore 
down  upon  him  with  the  pike  pointed  low,  fully  determined  to 
I'uii  him  through  and  through,  and  as  he  reached  him,  without 
checking  the  fury  of  his  charge,  he  cried  to  him,  "  Defend  thy- 
self, miserable  being,  or  yield  me  of  thine  own  accord  that 
which  is  so  reasonably  my  due." 

'  Prov.  160.  lu  full,  ''  Plegue  a  Dios  que  oregano  sea,  y  no  se  nos 
vuelva  alcaravea."  —  "Pray  God  it  may  prove  wild  marjoram,  and  not 
turn  out  caraway  on  us."  Shelton  and  Jervas  not  knowing  the  proverb 
have  mistranslated  the  passage ;  tlie  latter  shirks  the  difficulty,  and  the 
former  translates  oregano  "a  purchase  of  gold." 

^  Mal-andante-i  meaning  also  "  unlucky." 


MAMBRINO'S    HELMET.      Vol.  I.      Page  148. 


CHAPTER    XXL  149 

The  barber,  who  without  any  expectation  or  apprehension  of 
it  saw  this  apparition  coming  down  upon  him,  had  no  other 
way  of  saving  himself  from  the  stroke  of  the  Lance  but  to  let 
himself  fall  off  his  ass  ;  and  no  sooner  had  he  touched  the 
ground  than  he  sprang  up  more  nimbly  than  a  deer  and  sped 
away  across  the  plain  faster  than  the  wind. 

He  left  the  basin  on  the  ground,  with  which  Don  Quixote 
contented  himself,  saying  that  the  pagan  had  shown  his  discre- 
tion and  imitated  the  beaver,  which  finding  itself  pressed  by 
the  hunters  bites  and  cuts  off  with  its  teeth  that  for  which,  by 
its  natural  instinct,  it  knows  it  is  pursued. 

He  told  Sancho  to  pick  up  the  helmet,  and  he  taking  it  in 
his  hands  said,  "  By  God  the  basin  is  a  good  one,  and  worth  a 
real  of  eight  ^  if  it  is  worth  a  maravedi,"  and  handed  it  to  his 
master,  who  immediately  put  it  on  his  head,  turning  it  round, 
now  this  way,  now  that,  in  search  of  the  visor,  and  not  finding 
it  he  said,  "■  Clearly  the  pagan  to  whose  measure  this  famous 
head-piece  was  first  forged  must  have  had  a  very  large  head  ; 
but  the  Avorst  of  it  is  half  of  it  is  wanting." 

When  Sancho  heard  him  call  the  basin  a  head-piece  he  was 
unable  to  restrain  his  laughter,  but  remembering  his  master's 
wrath  he  checked  himself  in  the  midst  of  it. 

"  What  art  thou  laughing  at,  Sancho  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

''  I  am  laughing,"  said  he,  ''  to  think  of  the  great  head  the 
pagan  must  have  had  who  owned  this  helmet,  for  it  looks  exactly 
like  a  regular  barber's  basin." 

"  Dost  thou  know  what  I  suspect,  Sancho  ?  "  said  Don  Qui- 
xote ;  ''  that  this  wonderful  piece  of  this  enchanted  helmet  must 
by  some  strange  accident  have  come  into  the  hands  of  some  one 
Avho  was  unable  to  recognize  or  realize  its  value,  and  who,  not 
knowing  what  he  did,  and  seeing  it  to  be  of  the  purest  gold, 
must  have  melted  down  one  half  for  the  sake  of  what  it  might 
be  worth,  and  of  the  other  made  this  Avhich  is  like  a  barber's 
basin  as  thou  sayest ;  but  be  it  as  it  may,  to  me  who  recognize 
it,  its  transformation  makes  no  difference,  for  I  will  set  it  to 
rights  at  the  first  village  where  there  is  a  blacksmith,  and  in 
such  style  that  that  helmet  the  god  of  smithies  forged  for  the 
god  of  battles  shall  not  surpass  it  or  even  come  up  to  it ; 
and  in  the  meantime  I  will  wear  it  as  well  as  I  can,  for  some- 
thing is  better  than  nothing  ;  "^  all  the  more  as  it  will  be  quite 
enough  to  protect  me  from  any  chance  blow  of  a  stone." 

'  The  eight-real  piece  =  about  Is.  M.  '      '  Prov.  10. 


160  DON   QUIXOTE. 

"  That  is,"  said  Sancho,  "  if  it  is  not  shot  with  a  sling  as 
they  were  in  the  battle  of  the  two  armies,  when  they  signed 
the  cross  on  your  worship's  grinders  and  smashed  the  flask 
with  that  blessed  draught  that  made  me  vomit  my  bowels  up." 

"  It  does  not  grieve  me  much  to  have  lost  it,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  for  thou  knowest,  Sancho,  that  I  have  the  receipt  in 
my  memory." 

"  So  have  I,"  answered  Sancho,  ''  but  if  ever  I  make  it,  or 
try  it  again  as  long  as  I  live,  may  this  be  my  last  hour ;  more- 
over, I  have  no  intention  of  putting  myself  in  the  way  of 
wanting  it,  for  I  mean,  with  all  my  five  senses,  to  keep  myself 
from  being  wounded  or  from  wounding  any  one  :  as  to  being 
blanketed  again  I  say  nothing,  for  it  is  hard  to  prevent  mis- 
haps of  that  sort,  and  if  they  come  there  is  nothing  for  it  but 
to  squeeze  our  shoulders  together,  hold  our  breath,  shut  our 
eyes,  and  let  ourselves  go  where  luck  and  the  blanket  may 
send  us." 

"  Thou  art  a  bad  Christian,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote  on 
hearing  this,  "  for  once  an  injury  has  been  done  thee  thou 
never  forgettest  it :  but  know  that  it  is  the  part  of  noble  and 
generous  hearts  not  to  attach  importance  to  trifles.  What 
lame  leg  hast  thou  got  by  it,  what  broken  rib,  what  cracked 
head,  that  thou  canst  not  forget  that  jest  ?  For  jest  and  sport 
it  was,  properly  regarded,  and  had  I  not  seen  it  in  that  light  I 
would  have  returned  and  done  more  mischief  in  revenging  thee 
than  the  Greeks  did  for  the  rape  of  Helen,  who,  if  she  were 
alive  now,  or  if  niy  Dulcinea  had  lived  then,  might  depend 
upon  it  she  Avould  not  be  so  famous  for  her  beauty  as  she  is  ;  " 
and  here  he  heaved  a  sigh  and  sent  it  aloft ;  and  said  Sancho, 
''  Let  it  pass  for  a  jest  as  it  can  not  be  revenged  in  earnest,  but 
I  know  what  sort  of  jest  and  earnest  it  was,  and  I  know  it  will 
never  be  rubbed  oixt  of  my  memory  any  more  than  off  my 
shoulders.  But  putting  that  aside,  will  your  worship  tell  me 
what  are  we  to  do  with  this  dapjde-gray  steed  that  looks  like 
a  gray  ass,  Avhich  that  Martino  ^  that  your  worship  overthrew 
has  left  deserted  here  ?  for,  from  the  way  he  took  to  his  heels 
and  bolted,  he  is  not  likely  ever  to  come  back  for  it ;  and  by 
my  beard  but  the  gray  is  a  good  one." 

"  I  have  never  been  in  the  habit,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  of 
taking  spoil  of  those  whom  I  vanquish,  nor  is  it  the  practice 
of  chivalry  to  take  aAvay  their  horses  and  leave  them  to  go  on 

'  A  blunder  of  Sancho's  for  Mambrino. 


CHAPTER    XXL  151 

foot,  unless  indeed  it  be  that  the  victor  have  lost  his  own  in 
the  combat,  in  which  case  it  is  lawful  to  take  that  of  the  van- 
quished as  a  thing  won  in  lawful  war ;  therefore,  Sancho,  leave 
this  horse,  or  ass,  or  whatever  thou  wilt  have  it  to  be  ;  for 
when  its  owner  sees  us  gone  hence  he  will  come  back  for  it." 

"  God  knows  I  should  like  to  take  it,"  returned  Sancho,  "  or 
at  least  to  change  it  for  my  own,  which  does  not  seem  to  me 
as  good  a  one  ;  verily  the  laws  of  chivalry  are  strict,  since  they 
can  not  be  stretched  to  let  one  ass  be  changed  for  another  ;  I 
should  like  to  know  if  I  might  at  least  change  trappings." 

"On  that  head  I  am  not  quite  certain,"  answered  Don 
Quixote,  "  and  the  matter  being  doubtful,  pending  better  infor- 
mation, I  say  thou  mayest  change  them,  if  so  be  thou  hast 
urgent  need  of  them." 

"  So  urgent  is  it,"  answered  Sancho,  "  that  if  they  were  for 
ray  own  person  I  could  not  want  them  more ;  "  and  forthwith, 
fortified  by  this  license,  he  effected  the  mutatio  eapptinim,^ 
and  rigged  out  his  beast  to  tlie  ninety-nines,  making  quite 
another  thing  of  it.  This  done,  they  broke  their  fast  on  the  re- 
mains of  the  spoils  of  Avar  plundered  from  the  sumpter  mule, 
and  drank  of  the  brook  that  flowed  from  the  fulling  mills,  witli- 
out  casting  a  look  in  that  direction,  in  such  loathing  did  they 
hold  them  for  the  alarm  they  had  caused  them ;  and,  all  anger 
and  gloom  removed,  they  mounted  and,  without  taking  any 
fixed  road  (not  to  fix  upon  any  being  the  proper  thing  for  true 
knights-errant),  they  set  out,  gviided  by  Rocinante's  will,  which 
carried  along  with  it  that  of  his  master,  not  to  say  that  of  the 
ass,  which  always  followed  him  Avherever  he  led,  lovingly  and 
sociably  ;  nevertheless  they  returned  to  the  high  road,  and  pur- 
sued it  at  a  venture  without  any  other  aim. 

As  they  went  along,  then,  in  this  way  Sancho  said  to  his 
master,  *'  Senor,  would  your  worship  give  me  leave  to  speak  a 
little  to  you?  For  since  you  laid  that  hard  injunction  of 
silence  on  me  several  things  have  gone  to  rot  in  my  stomach, 
and  I  have  now  just  one  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  that  I  don't 
want  to  be  spoiled." 

"  Say  on,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  be  brief  in  thy 
discourse,  for  there  is  no  pleasure  in  one  that  is  long." 

'  The  mutatio  capparum  was  the  change  of  hoods  authorized  l)y  the 
Roman  ceremonial,  when  the  cardinals  exchanged  the  fur-lined  hoods  worn 
in  winter  for  lighter  ones  of  silk.  There  is  a  certain  audacity  of  humor 
in  the  application  of  the  phrase  here. 


162  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  Well,  then,  senor,"  returned  Sancho,  "  I  say  that  for  some 
days  past  I  have  been  considering  how  little  is  got  or  gained 
by  going  in  search  of  these  adventures  that  your  worship  seeks 
in  these  wilds  and  cross-roads,  where,  even  if  the  most  perilous 
are  victoriously  achieved,  there  is  no  one  to  see  or  know  of 
them,  and  so  they  must  be  left  untold  forever,  to  the  loss  of 
your  worship's  object  and  the  credit  they  deserve ;  therefore  it 
seems  to  me  it  would  be  better  (saving  your  worship's  better 
judgment)  if  we  were  to  go  and  serve  some  emperor  or  other 
great  prince  who  may  have  some  war  on  hand,  in  whose  service 
your  worship  may  prove  the  worth  of  your  person,  your  great 
might,  and  greater  understanding,  on  perceiving  which  the  lord 
in  whose  service  we  may  be  will  perforce  have  to  reward  us, 
each  according  to  his  merits ;  and  there  you  will  not  be  at  a 
loss  for  some  one  to  set  down  your  achievements  in  writing  so 
as  to  preserve  their  memory  forever.  Of  my  own  I  say  noth- 
ing, as  they  will  not  go  beyond  squirely  limits,  though  I  make 
bold  to  say  that,  if  it  be  the  practice  in  chivalry  to  write  the 
achievements  of  squires,  I  think  mine  must  not  be  left  out." 

''  Thou  speakest  not  amiss,  Sancho,"  answered  Don  Quixote, 
'■'  but  before  that  point  is  reached  it  is  requisite  to  roam  the 
world,  as  it  were  on  probation,  seeking  adventures,  in  order 
that,  by  achieving  some,  name  and  fame  may  be  acquired,  such 
that  when  he  betakes  himself  to  the  court  of  some  great  mon- 
arch the  knight  may  be  already  known  by  his  deeds,  and  that 
the  boys,  the  instant  they  see  him  enter  the  gate  of  the  city, 
may  all  follow  him  and  surround  him,  crying,  '  This  is  the 
Knight  of  the  Sun'  —  or  the  Serpent,  or  any  other  title  under 
which  he  may  have  achieved  great  deeds.  '  This,'  they  will 
say,  '  is  he  who  vanquished  in  single  combat  the  gigantic  Bro- 
cabruno  of  mighty  strength  ;  he  who  delivered  the  great  Mame- 
luke of  Persia  out  of  the  long  enchantment  under  which  he  had 
been  for  almost  nine  hundred  years.'  ^  So  from  one  to  another 
they  will  go  proclaiming  his  achievements  ;  and  presently  at  the 
tumult  of  the  boys  and  the  others  the  king  of  that  kingdom 
will  appear  at  the  windows  of  his  royal  palace,  and  as  soon  as 
he  beholds  the  knight,  recognizing  him  by  his  arms  and  the 
device  on  his  shield,  he  will  as  a  matter  of  course  say,  *  What 
ho !  Forth  all  ye,  the  knights  of  my  court,  to  receive  the  flower 
of  chivalry  who  cometh  hither! '     At  which  command  all  will 

'  Cervantes  gives  here  an  admirable  epitome,  and  without  any  extrava- 
gant caricature,  of  a  tN'pical  romance  of  chivalry.  For  every  incident 
there  is  ample  authority  in  the  romances. 


CHAPTER    XXI.  153 

issue    forth,  and   he  himself,  advancing    half-way  down    the 
stairs,  will  embrace  him  closely,  and  salute  him,  kissing  him 
on  the  cheek,  and  will  then  lead  him  to  the  queen's  chamber, 
where  the  knight  will  find  her  with  the  princess  her  daughter, 
who    will  be    one  of    the  most    beautiful    and    accomplished 
damsels  that  could  with  the  utmost  pains  be  discovered  any- 
where in  the  known  world.     Straightway  it  will  come  to  pass 
that  she  will  fix  her  eyes  ui)on  the  knight  and  he  his  upon  her, 
and  each  will  seem  to  the  other  something  more  divine  than 
human,  and,  without  knowing  how  or  why,  they  Avill  be  taken 
and  entangled  in  the  inextricable  toils  of  love,  and  sorely  dis- 
tressed in  their  hearts  not  to  see  any  way  of    making  their 
pains  and  sufferings  known  by  speech.     Thence  they  will  lead 
him,  no  doubt,  to  some  richly  adorned  chamber  of  the  palace, 
where,  having  removed  his  armor,  they  will  bring  him  a  rich 
mantle  of  scarlet  wherewith  to  robe  himself,  and  if  he  looked 
noble  in    his  armor  he  will  look  still  more  so  in  a  doublet. 
When  night    conies  he  will    sup  with    the  king,  queen,  and 
princess  ;  and  all  the  time  he  Avill  never  take  his  eyes  off  her, 
stealing  stealthy  glances,  unnoticed  by  those  present,  and  she 
will  do  the  same,  and  with  equal  cautiousness,  being,  as  I  have 
said,  a  damsel  of  great  discretion.     The  tables  being  removed, 
suddenly  through  the  door  of  the  hall  there  will  enter  a  hide- 
ous and  diminutive  dwarf  followed  by  a  fair  dame,  between 
two  giants,  who  comes  with  a  certain  adventure,  the  work  of 
an  ancient  sage ;  and  he  who  shall  achieve  it  shall  be  deemed 
the  best  knight  in  the-world.^     The  king  will  then  command 
all  those  present  to  essay  it,  and  none  will  bring  it  to  an  end 
and  conclusion  save  the  stranger  knight,  to  the  great  enhance- 
ment of  his  fame,  whereat  the  })rincess  will  be  overjoyed  and 
will  esteem  herself  happy  and  fortunate  in  having  fixed  and 
placed  her  thoughts  so  high.     And  the  best  of  it  is  that  this 
king,  or  prince,  or  whatever  he  is,  is  engaged  in  a  very  bitter 
war  with  another  as  powerful    as  himself,  and  the  stranger 
knight,  after  having  been  some    days  at  his    court,  requests 
leave  from  him  to  go  and  serve  him  in  the  said  war.     The  king 
will  grant  it  very  readily,  and  the  knight  will  courteously  kiss 
his  hands  for  the  favor  done  to  him ;  and  that  night  he  will 

'  Hartzenbusch,  considering  "  adventure  "  unintelligible,  would  substi- 
tute "  enigma"  or  "  prophecy  "  for  it ;  and  "  explain  "  for  "  achieve  ;  "  but 
absolute  consistency  in  a  burlesque  passage  like  this  is  scarcely  worth 
insisting  upon. 


154  DON    QUIXOTE. 

take  leave  of  liis  lady  the  princess  at  the  grating  of  the  cham- 
ber where  she  sleeps,  which  looks  upon  a  garden,  and  at  which 
he  has  already  many  times  conversed  with  her,  the  go-between 
and  confidante  in  the  matter  being  a  damsel  much  trusted  by 
the  princess.  He  will  sigh,  she  will  swoon,  the  damsel  will 
fetch  water,  he  will  be  distressed  because  morning  approaches, 
and  for  the  honor  of  his  lady  he  would  not  that  they  were  dis- 
covered ;  at  last  the  princess  will  come  to  herself  and  will  present 
her  white  hands  through  the  grating  to  the  knight,  who  will 
kiss  them  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times,  bathing  them  with 
his  tears.  It  will  be  arranged  between  them  how  they  are  to 
inform  each  other  of  their  good  or  evil  fortunes,  and  the 
princess  will  entreat  him  to  make  his  absence  as  short  as  possi- 
ble, which  he  will  promise  to  do  with  many  oaths  ;  once  more 
he  kisses  her  hands,  and  takes  his  leave  in  such  grief  that  he 
is  well-nigh  ready  to  die.  He  betakes  him  thence  to  his 
chamber,  tlings  himself  on  his  bed,  can  not  sleep  for  sorrow  at 
parting,  rises  early  in  the  morning,"  goes  to  take  leave  of  the 
king,  queen,  and  princess,  and,  as  he  takes  his  leave  of  the 
pair,  it  is  told  him  that  the  princess  is  indisposed  and  can  not 
receive  a  visit ;  the  knight  thinks  it  is  from  grief  at  his  de- 
parture, his  heart  is  pierced,  and  he  is  hardly  able  to  keep 
from  showing  his  pain.  The  confidante  is  present,  observes 
all,  goes  to  tell  her  mistress,  who  listens  with  tears  and  says 
that  one  of  her  greatest  distresses  is  not  knowing  who  this 
knight  is,  and  whether  he  is  of  kingly  lineage  or  not ;  the 
damsel  assures  her  that  so  much  courtesy,  gentleness,  and 
gallantry  of  bearing  as  her  knight  possesses  could  not  exist  in 
any  save  one  who  was  royal  and  illustrious  ;  her  anxiety  is 
thus  relieved,  and  she  strives  to  be  of  good  cheer  lest  she 
should  excite  suspicion  in  her  parents,  and  at  the  end  of  two 
days  she  appears  in  public.  Meanwhile  the  knight  has  taken 
his  departure  ;  he  fights  in  the  war,  conquers  the  king's  enemy, 
wins  many  cities,  triumphs  in  many  battles,  returns  to  the 
court,  sees  his  lady  where  he  was  wont  to  see  her,  and  it  is 
agreed  that  he  shall  demand  her  in  marriage  of  her  parents  as 
the  reward  of  his  services ;  the  king  is  unwilling  to  give  her, 
as  he  knows  not  who  he  is,  but  nevertheless,  whether  carried 
off  or  in  whatever  other  way  it  may  be,  the  princess  comes  to 
be  his  bride,  and  her  father  comes  to  regard  it  as  very  good 
fortune  ;  for  it  so  happens  that  this  knight  is  proved  to  be  the 
son  of  a  valiant  king  of  some  kingdom,  I  knoAv  not  what,  for  I 


CHAPTER    XXI.  155 

fancy  it  is  not  likely  to  be  on  the  map  ;  the  father  dies,  the 
princess  inherits,  and  in  two  words  the  knight  becomes  king. 
And  here  conies  in  at  once  the  bestowal  of  rewards  upon  his 
squire  and  all  who  have  aided  him  in  rising  to  so  exalted  a 
rank.  He  marries  his  squire  to  a  damsel  of  the  princess's,  who 
will  be,  no  doubt,  the  one  who  was  confidante  in  their  amour, 
and  is  daughter  of  a  very  great  duke." 

"  That 's  what  I  want,  no  mistake  about  it !  "  said  Sancho. 
"  That 's  what  I  'm  waiting  for ;  for  all  this,  word  for  word,  is 
in  store  for  your  worship  under  the  title  of  The  Knight  of  the 
Kueful  Countenance." 

"  Thou  needst  not  doubt  it,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote, 
"  for  in  the  same  manner,  and  by  the  same  steps  as  I  have  de- 
scribed here,  knights-errant  rise  and  have  risen  to  be  kings  and 
emperors ;  all  we  want  now  is  to  find  oiit  Avhat  king.  Christian 
or  pagan,  is  at  war  and  has  a  beautiful  daughter ;  but  there 
will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  that,  for,  as  I  have  told  thee, 
fame  must  be  won  in  other  quarters  before  repairing  to  the 
court.  There  is  another  thing,  too,  that  is  wanting ;  for 
supposing  we  find  a  king  who  is  at  war  and  has  a  beautiful 
daughter,  and  that  I  have  won  incredible  fame  throughout  the 
universe,  I  know  not  how  it  can  be  made  out  that  I  am  of 
royal  lineage,  or  even  second  cousin  to  an  emperor ;  for  the 
king  will  not  be  willing  to  give  me  his  daughter  in  marriage 
unless  he  is  first  thoroughly  satisfied  on  this  point,  however 
much  my  famous  deeds  may  deserve  it ;  so  that  by  this  de- 
ficiency I  fear  I  shall  lose  what  my  arm  has  fairly  earned. 
True  it  is  I  am  a  gentleman  of  a  known  house,  of  estate  and 
property,  and  entitled  to  the  five  hundred  sueldos  mulct ;  ^  and 
it  may  be  that  the  sage  who  shall  write  my  liistor}'  will  so 
clear  up  my  ancestry  and  pedigree  that  I  may  find  myself  fifth 
or  sixth  in  descent  from  a  king ;  for  I  would  have  thee  know, 
Sancho,  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  lineages  in  the  world; 
some  there  be  tracing  and  deriving  their  descent  from  kings 
and  princes,  whom  time  has  reduced  little  by  little  until  they 
end  in  a  point  like  a  pyramid  upside  down ;  and  others  who 
spring  from  the  common  herd  and  go  on  rising  step  by  step 

'An  "hidalgo  de  devengar  quinientos  sueldos,"  was  one  who  hv  the 
ancient  fueros  of  Castile  had  a  right  to  recover  .500  sueldos  for  an  injury 
to  person  or  property.  This  is  the  common  explanation  ;  Huarte,  in  the 
Examen  de  Ingenios^  says  it  means  the  descendant  of  one  who  enjoj^ed  a 
grant  of  500  sueldos  for  distinguished  services  in  the  field.  The  sueldo 
was  an  old  coin  varying  in  value  from  a  halfpenny  to  three-halfpence. 


156  DON    QUIXOTE. 

until  they  come  to  be  great  lords ;  so  that  the  difference  is  that 
the  one  were  what  they  no  longer  are,  and  the  others  are  what 
they  formerly  were  not.  And  T  may  be  of  snch  that  after  in- 
vestigation my  origin  may  prove  great  and  famous,  with  which 
the  king,  my  father-in-law  that  is  to  be,  ought  to  be  satistied ; 
and  should  he  not  be,  the  princess  will  so  love  me  that  even 
though  she  well  knew  me  to  be  the  son  of  a  water-carrier,  she 
will  take  me  for  her  lord  and  husband  in  spite  of  her  father ; 
if  not,  then  it  comes  to  seizing  her  and  carrying  her  off  where 
I  please  ;  for  time  or  death  will  put  an  end  to  the  Avrath  of 
her  parents." 

"  It  comes  to  this,  too,"  said  Sancho,  "  Avhat  some  naughty 
people  say,  '  Never  ask  as  a  favor  Avhat  thou  canst  take  by 
force ;  '  ^  though  it  would  fit  better  to  say,  '  A  clear  escape  is 
better  than  good  men's  prayers.'  -  I  say  so  because  if  my  lord 
the  king,  your  worship's  father-in-law,  Avill  not  condescend  to 
give  you  my  lady  the  princess,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but,  as 
your  worship  says,  to  seize  her  and  transport  her.  But  the  mis- 
chief is  that  until  peace  is  made  and  you  come  into  the  peace- 
ful enjoyment  of  yoiir  kingdom,  the  poor  squire  is  famishing 
as  far  as  rewards  go,  imless  it  be  that  the  confidante  damsel 
that  is  to  be  his  wife  comes  with  the  princess,  ami  that  with 
her  he  tides  over  his  bad  luck  until  Heaven  otherAvise  orders 
things  ;  for  his  master,  I  suppose,  may  as  Avell  giA'e  her  to  him 
at  once  for  a  laAvful  Avife." 

''  Nobody  can  object  to  that,"  said  Don  Quixote. 

''  Then  since  that  may  be,"  said  Sancho,  ''  there  is  nothing 
for  it  but  to  commend  ourseh^es  to  God,  and  let  fortune  take 
what  course  it  will." 

"  God  guide  it  according  to  my  Avishes  and  thy  wants,"  said 
Don  Quixote,  "  and  mean  be  he  Avho  makes  himself  mean."  ^ 

"  In  God's  name  let  him  be  so,''  said  Sancho  ;  "  I  am  an  old 
Christian,  and  to  fit  me  for  a  count  that 's  enough."  * 

"  And  more  than  enough  for  thee,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  and 
even  Avert  thou  not,  it  Avould  make  no  difference,  because  I 
being  the  king  can  easily  give  thee  nobility  Avithout  purchase 
or  service  rendered  by  thee,  for  Avhen  I  make  thee  a  covuit, 

1  Prov.  107. 

^  Prov.  212.  "  Mas  A'ale  salto  de  mata  que  ruego  de  hombres  buenos." 
Mata  is  here  an  old  equivalent  of  matanza  =  "  slaughter ;  "  in  modern 
Spanish  the  word  means  a  bush  or  hedge,  in  consequence  of  which  the 
proverb  is  generally  misunderstood  and  mistranslated. 

^  Prov.  210.  ■•  Prov.  61.      V.  note,  p.  143. 


CHAPTER    XXL  157 

then  thou  art  at  once  a  gentleman ;  and  they  may  say  what 
they  will,  but  by  my  faith  they  will  have  to  call  thee  '  your 
lordship,'  whether  they  like  it  or  not." 

"  Xot  a  doubt  of  it ;  and  I  '11  knoAV  how  to  support  the  tittle," 
said  Sancho. 

"  Title  thou  shouldst  say,  not  tittle,"  said  his  master. 

"  So  be  it,"  answered  Sancho,  "  I  say  I  will  know  how  to 
behave,  for  once  in  my  life  I  was  beadle  of  a  brotherhood,  and 
a  beadle's  gown  sat  so  well  on  me  that  all  said  I  looked  as  if  I 
was  fit  to  be  steward  of  the  same  brotherhood.  Wliat  will  it 
be,  then,  when  I  put  a  duke's  robe  on  my  back,  or  dress  myself 
in  gold  and  pearls  like  a  foreign  count ';'  I  believe  they  Avill 
come  a  himdred  leagues  to  see  me." 

"  Thou  wilt  look  well,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  but  thou  must 
shave  thy  l:)eard  often,  for  thou  hast  it  so  thick  and  rough  and 
unkempt  that  if  thou  dost  not  shave  it  every  second  day  at 
least,  they  will  see  what  thou  art  at  the  distance  of  a  musket- 
shot." 

"What  more  will  it  be,"  said  Sancho,  "than  having  a  bar- 
ber, and  keeping  him  at  wages  in  the  house  ?  and  even  if  it  be 
necessary,  I  will  make  him  go  behind  me  like  a  nobleman's 
equerry." 

"Why,  how  dost  thou  know  that  n()l)lemen  have  equerries 
behind  them  ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  answered  Sancho.  "  Years  ago  I  was  for 
a  month  at  the  capital,^  and  there  I  saw  taking  the  air  a  very 
small  gentleman  who  they  said  Avas  a  very  great  man,^  and  a 
man  following  him  on  horseback  in  every  turn  he  took,  just  as 
if  he  was  his  tail.  I  asked  why  this  man  did  not  join  the  other 
man,  instead  of  always  going  behind  him  ;  they  answered  me 
that  he  Avas  his  equerry,  and  that  it  Avas  the  custom  with  nobles 
to  have  such  persons  behind  them,  and  ever  since  then  I  know 
it,  for  I  have  never  forgotten  it." 

"  Thou  art  right,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  in  the  same  way 
thou  mayest  carry  thy  barber  with  thee,  for  customs  did  not 
come  into  use  all  together  nor  were  they  all  invented  at  once, 
and  thou  mayest  be  the  first  count  to  have  a  barber  to  follow 
him ;  and,  indeed,  shaving  one's  beard  is  a  greater  trust  than 
saddling  one's  horse." 

'  Literally  "  at  the  Court "  —  la  Corte. 

*  No  doubt  Pedro  Telloz  Giron,  third  Duke  of  Osuna,  afterwards  Vice- 
roy in  Sicily  and  Naples  ;  "  a  little  man,  but  of  great  fame  and  fortunes," 
as  Howell,  writing  twenty  years  later,  calls  him. 


158  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  Let  the  barber  business  be  my  look-out,"  said  Sancbo ; 
"  and  your  worship's  be  it  to  strive  to  become  a  king,  and  make 
me  a  count." 

"  So  it  shall  be,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  and  raising  his  eyes 
he  saw  what  will  be  told  in  the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

OF  THE  FKEEDOM  DOX  QUIXOTE  CONFERRED  OX  SEVERAL 
UNFORTUNATES  WHO  AGAINST  THEIR  WILL  WERE  BEING 
CARRIED    WHERE    THEY    HAD    NO    WISH    TO    GO. 

CiD  Hamet  Benengeli,  the  Arab  and  Manchegan  author, 
relates  in  this  most  grave,  high-sounding,  minute,  delightful, 
and  original  history  that  after  the  discussion  between  the 
famous  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  and  his  squire  Sancho 
Panza  which  is  set  down  at  the  end  of  chapter  twenty-one, 
Don  Quixote  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  coming  along  the  road  he 
was  following  some  dozen  men  on  foot  strung  together  by  the 
neck,  like  beads,  on  a  great  iron  chain,  and  all  with  manacles 
on  their  hands.  With  them  there  came  also  two  men  on  horse- 
back and  two  on  foot ;  those  on  horseback  with  wheel-lock 
muskets,  those  on  foot  with  javelins  and  swords,  and  as  soon 
as  Sancho  saw  them  he  said,  "  That  is  a  chain  of  galley  slaves, 
on  the  way  to  the  gallej's  by  force  of  the  king's  orders." 

"  How  by  force  ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote ;  "  is  it  possible  that 
the  king  uses  force  against  any  one  ?  " 

''  I  do  not  say  that,"  answered  Sancho,  "  but  that  these  are 
people  condemned  for  their  crimes  to  serve  by  force  in  the 
king's  galley's." 

"  In  fact,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  however  it  may  be,  these 
people  are  going  where  they  are  taking  them  by  force,  and  not 
of  their  own  will." 

''  Just  so,"  said  Sancho. 

"  Then  if  so,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  here  is  a  case  for  the 
exercise  of  my  office,  to  put  down  force  and  to  succor  and  help 
the  wretched." 

"  Recollect,  your  worship,"  said  Sancho,  "  Justice,  which  is 
the  king  himself,  is  not  using  force  or  doing  wrong  to  such 
persons,  but  punishing  them  for  their  crimes." 


CHAPTER    XXII.  159 

The  chain  of  galley  slaves  had  by  this  time  come  up,  and 
Don  Quixote  in  very  courteous  language  asked  those  who  were 
in  custody  of  it  to  be  good  enough  to  tell  him  the  reason  or 
reasons  for  which  they  were  conducting  these  people  in  tJiis 
manner.  One  of  the  guards  on  horseback  answered  that  they 
were  galley  slaves  belonging  to  his  majesty,  that  they  were 
going  to  the  galleys,  and  that  was  all  that  was  to  be  said  and 
all  he  had  any  business  to  know. 

"  ISTevertheless,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  I  should  like  to 
know  from  each  of  them  separately  the  reason  of  his  misfort- 
une ;  "  to  this  he  added  more  to  the  same  effect  to  induce 
them  to  tell  him  what  he  wanted  so  civilly  that  the  other 
mounted  guard  said  to  him,  "  Though  we  have  here  the  register 
and  certificate  of  the  sentence  of  every  one  of  these  wretches, 
this  is  no  time  to  take  them  out  or  read  them ;  come  and  ask 
themselves ;  they  can  tell  if  they  choose,  and  they  will,  for 
these  fellows  take  a  pleasure  in  doing  and  talking  about  ras- 
calities." 

With  this  permission,  which  Don  Quixote  would  have  taken 
even  had  they  not  granted  it,  he  approached  the  chain  and  asked 
the  first  for  what  offences  he  was  now  in  such  a  sorry  case. 

He  made  answer  that  it  was  for  being  a  lover. 

''  For  that  only  ?  "  replied  Don  Quixote  ;  "  why,  if  for  being- 
lovers  they  send  people  to  the  galleys  I  might  have  been  row- 
ing in  them  long  ago." 

"  The  love  is  not  the  sort  your  worship  is  thinking  of,"  said 
the  galley  slave  ;  "  mine  was  that  I  loved  a  washerwoman's 
basket  of  clean  linen  so  well,  and  held  it  so  close  in  my  em- 
brace, that  if  the  arm  of  the  law  had  not  forced  it  from  me,  I 
should  never  have  let  it  go  of  my  own  will  to  this  moment ; 
I  was  caught  in  the  act,  there  was  no  occasion  for  torture,  the 
case  was  settled,  they  treated  me  to  a  hundred  lashes  on  the 
back,  and  three  years  of  gurapas  besides,  and  that  was  the  end 
of  it." 

"  What  are  gurapas  ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote. 

"  Gurapas  are  galleys,"  ^  answered  the  galley  slave,  Avho  was 
a  young  man  of  about  four-and-twenty,  and  said  he  was  a 
native  of  Piedrahita. 

'  Gurapas^  a  word  from  the  "CTorniania  "  or  rogue's  rlialect,  of  which 
there  are  many  specimens  in  this  chapter  and  scattered  through  Don 
Quixote.  Indeed,  Juan  Hidalgo's  Vocabnlario  of  the  Germania  tongue 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  any  one  reading  the  book  in  the  original. 


160  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Don  Quixote  asked  the  same  question  of  the  second,  who 
made  no  reply,  so  downcast  and  melancholy  was  he  ;  but  the 
lirst  answered  for  him,  and  said,  "  He,  sir,  goes  as  a  canary,  I 
mean  as  a  musician  and  a  singer." 

'■'■  What !  "  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  being  musicians  and  sing- 
ers do  people  go  to  the  galleys  too  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  galley  slave,  "  for  there  is  nothing 
worse  than  singing  under  suffering." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  have  heard  say,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  that  he  who  sings  scares  away  his  woes."  -^ 

"  Here  is  the  reverse,"  said  the  galley  slave  ;  "  for  he  who 
sings  once  weeps  all  his  life." 

"  I  do  not  understand  it,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  but  one  of  the 
guards  said  to  him,  "  Sir,  to  sing  under  suffering  means  with 
the  non  sancta  fraternity  to  confess  under  torture  ;  they  put 
this  sinner  to  the  torture,  and  he  confessed  his  crime,  which 
was  being  a  ciiatrero,  that  is  a  cattle-stealer,  and  on  his  confes- 
sion they  sentenced  him  to  six  years  in  the  galleys,  besides  two 
hundred  lashes  that  he  has  already  had  on  the  back ;  and  he  is 
always  dejected  and  downcast  because  the  other  thieves  that 
were  left  behind  and  that  march  here  ill-treat,  and  snub,  and 
jeer,  and  despise  him  for  confessing  and  not  having  spirit 
enough  to  say  nay  ;  for,  say  they,  '  nay  '  has  no  more  letters  in 
it  than  '  yea,'  ^  and  a  cidprit  is  well  off  when  life  or  death  with 
him  depends  on  his  own  tongue  and  not  on  that  of  witnesses 
or  evidence ;  and  to  my  thinking  they  are  not  very  far  out." 

"  And  I  think  so  too,"  answered  Don  Quixote ;  then  passing 
on  to  the  third  he  asked  him  what  he  had  asked  the  others,  and 
the  man  answered  very  readily  and  unconcernedly,  "  I  am  go- 
ing for  five  years  to  their  ladyships  the  gurapas  for  the  want 
of  ten  ducats." 

"  I  will  give  twenty  with  pleasure  to  get  you  out  of  that 
trouble,"  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  That,"  said  the  galley  slave,  "  is  like  a  man  having  money 
at  sea  when  he  is  dying  of  hunger  and  has  no  way  of  buying 
what  he  wants  ;  I  say  so  because  if  at  the  right  time  I  had  had 
those  twenty  ducats  that  your  worship  now  offers  me,  I  would 
have  greased  the  notary's  pen  and  freshened  up  the  attorney's 
wit  with  them,  so  that  to-day  I  should  be  in  the  nuddle  of  the 
plaza  of  the  Zocodover  at  Toledo,  and  not  on  this  road  coupled 
like  a  greyhound.  But  God  is  great ;  patienf  e  —  there,  that 's 
enough  of  it." 

•  Trov.  32.  >>  Prov.  126. 


CHAPTER    XXII.  161 

Don  Quixote  passed  on  to  the  fourth,  a  man  of  venerable 
aspect  with  a  white  beard  falling  below  his  breast,  who  on  hear- 
ing himself  asked  the  reason  of  his  being  there  began  to  weep 
withouf  answering  a  word,  but  the  fifth  acted  as  his  tongue 
and  said,  "  This  worthy  man  is  going  to  the  galleys  for  four 
years,  after  having  gone  the  rounds  in  the  robe  of  ceremony 
and  on  horseback."  ' 

"  That  means,"  said  Sancho  Panza,  "  as  I  take  it,  to  have 
been  exposed  to  shame  in  public." 

"  Just  so,"  replied  the  galley  slave,  "  and  the  offence  for 
which  they  gave  him  that  punishment  was  having  been  an 
ear-broker,  nay  body-broker  ;  1  mean,  in  short,  that  this  gentle-  ■ 
man  goes  as  a  pimp,  and  for  having  besides  a  certain  touch  of 
the  sorcerer  about  him." 

"  If  that  touch  had  not  been  thrown  in,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  he  would  not  deserve,  for  mere  pimping,  to  row  in  the  gal- 
leys, but  rather  to  command  and  be  admiral  of  them  ;  for  the 
office  of  pimp  is  no  ordinary  one,  being  the  office  of  persons  of 
discretion,  one  very  necessary  in  a  well-ordered  state,  and  only 
to  be  exercised  by  persons  of  good  birth  ;  nay,  there  ought  to 
be  an  inspector  and  overseer  of  them,  as  in  other  offices,  and  a 
fixed  and  recognized  number,  as  with  the  brokers  on  change  ; 
in  this  way  many  of  the  evils  would  be  avoided  which  are 
caused  by  this  office  and  calling  being  in  the  hands  of  stupid 
and  ignorant  people,  such  as  women  more  or  less  silly,  and 
pages  and  jesters  of  little  standing  and  experience,  who  on  the 
most  urgent  occasions,  and  when  ingenuity  of  contrivance  is 
needed,  let  the  crumbs  freeze  on  the  way  to  their  mouths,-  and 
know  not  which  is  their  right  hand.  I  would  go  further,  and 
give  reasons  to  show  that  it  is  advisable  to  choose  those  who 
are  to  hold  so  necessary  an  office  in  the  state,  but  this  is  not 
the  fit  place  for  it ;  some  day  I  will  expound  the  matter  to 
some  one  able  to  see  to  and  rectify  it ;  all  I  say  now  is,  that 
the  additional  fact  of  his  being  a  sorcerer  has  removed  the 
sorrow  it  gave  me  to  see  these  white  hairs  and  this  venerable 
countenance  in  so  painful  a  position  on  account  of  his  being  a 
pimp  ;  though  I  know  well  there  are  no  sorceries  in  the  world 
that  can  move  or  compel  the  will  as  some  simple  folk  fancy, 
for  oiir  will  is  free,  nor  is  there  herb  or  charm  that  can  force 

'  Malefactors  were  eommonly  whipped  in  this  way,  and  the  ceremony  is 
frequently  alluded  to  in  the  Picaresque  novels. 
2  Prov.  18B. 

Vol.  I.  — 11 


162  DON    QUIXOTE. 

it.  All  that  certain  silly  women  and  quacks  do  is  to  turn  men 
mad  with  potions  and  poisons,  pretending  that  they  have 
power  to  cause  love,  for,  as  I  say,  it  is  an  impossibility  to 
compel  the  will." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  good  old  man,  "  and  indeed,  sir,  as  far 
as  the  charge  of  sorcery  goes  I  was  not  guilty ;  as  to  that  of 
being  a  pimp  I  cannot  deny  it  ;  but  I  never  thought  I  was 
doing  any  harm  by  it,  for  my  only  object  was  that  all  the 
world  should  enjoy  itself  and  live  in  peace  and  quiet,  without 
quarrels  or  troubles  ;  but  my  good  intentions  were  unavailing 
to  save  me  from  going  where  I  never  expect  to  come  back 
from,  Avith  this  weight  of  years  upon  me  and  a  urinary  ailment 
that  never  gives  me  a  moment's  ease ;  "  and  again  he  fell  to 
weeping  as  before,  and  such  compassion  did  Sancho  feel  for 
him  that  he  took  out  a  real  of  four  from  his  bosom  and  gave 
it  to  him  in  alms. 

Don  Quixote  went  on  and  asked  another  what  his  crime  was, 
and  the  man  answered  with  no  less  but  rather  much  more 
sprightliness  than  the  last  one,  ''  I  am  here  because  I  carried 
the  joke  too  far  with  a  couple  of  cousins  of  mine,  and  with  a 
couple  of  other  coixsins  who  were  none  of  mine ;  in  short,  I 
carried  the  joke  so  far  with  them  all  that  it  ended  in  such  a 
complicated  increase  of  kindred  that  no  accoimtant  could  make 
it  clear  :  it  was  all  proved  against  me,  I  got  no  favor,  I  had  no 
money,  I  was  near  having  my  neck  stretched,  they  sentenced 
me  to  the  galleys  for  six  years,  I  accepted  my  fate,  it  is  the 
punishment  of  my  fault ;  I  am  a  young  man ;  let  life  only  last, 
and  with  that  all  will  come  right.  If  you,  sir,  have  anything 
wherewith  to  help  the  poor,  God  will  repay  it  to  you  in  heaven, 
and  we  on  earth  will  take  care  in  our  petitions  to  him  to  pray 
for  the  life  and  health  of  your  worship,  that  they  may  be  as 
long  and  as  good  as  your  amiable  appearance  deserves."  This 
one  was  in  the  dress  of  a  student,  and  one  of  the  guards  said 
he  Avas  a  great  talker  and  a  very  elegant  Latin  scholar. 

Behind  all  these  there  came  a  man  of  thirty,  a  very  person- 
able fellow,  except  that  when  he  looked  his  eyes  turned  in  a 
little,  one  towards  the  other.  He  was  bound  differently  from 
the  rest,  for  he  had  to  his  leg  a  chain  so  long  that  it  was  wound 
all  round  his  body,  and  two  rings  on  his  neck,  one  attached  to 
the  chain,  the  other  to  what  they  call  a  "  keep-friend  "  or 
"  friend's  foot,"  from  which  hung  two  irons  reaching  to  his 
waist    with  two  manacles  fixed  to  them  in  which  his  hands 


CHAPTER    XXI L  163 

were  secured  by  a  big  padlock,  so  that  lie  could  neither  raise 
his  hand  to  his  mouth  nor  lower  his  head  to  his  hands.  Don 
Quixote  asked  why  this  man  carried  so  many  more  chains  than 
the  others.  The  guard  replied  that  it  was  because  he  alone 
had  committed  more  crimes  than  all  the  rest  put  together,  and 
was  so  daring  and  such  a  villain,  that  though  they  marched 
him  in  that  fashion  they  did  not  feel  sure  of  him,  but  were  in 
dread  of  his  making  his  escape. 

''  What  crimes  can  he  have  committed,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  if  they  have  not  deserved  a  heavier  punishment  than  being 
sent  to  the  galleys  ?  " 

"■  He  goes  for  ten  years,"  replied  the  giuird,  "  which  is  the 
same  thing  as  civil  death,  and  all  that  need  be  said  is  that  this 
good  fellow  is  the  famous  Gines  de  Pasamonte,  otherwise 
called  Ginesillo  de  Parapilla." 

"  Gently,  seilor  commissary,"  said  the  galley  slave  at  this, 
"  let  us  have  no  fixing  of  names  or  surnames ;  my  name  is 
Gines,  not  Ginesillo,  and  my  family  name  is  Pasamonte,  not 
Parapilla  as  you  say ;  let  each  one  mind  his  own  business,  and 
he  will  be  doing  enough." 

"  Speak  with  less  impertinence,  master  thief  of  extra  meas- 
ure, replied  the  commissary,  "if  you  don't  want  me  to  make 
you  hold  your  tongue  in  spite  of  your  teeth." 

"  It  is  easy  to  see,"  returned  the  galley  slave,  "  that  man 
goes  as  God  pleases,^  l)ut  some  one  shall  know  some  day 
whether  T  am  called  Ginesillo  de  Parapilla  or  not." 

"  Don't  they  call  you  so,  you  liar  "•'  "  said  the  guard. 

"  They  do,"  returned  Gines,  "  but  I  will  make  them  give 
over  calling  me  so  with  a  vengeance ;  where,  I  won't  say.  If 
you,  sir,  have  anything  to  give  us,  give  it  to  us  at  once,  and 
God  speed  you,  for  you  are  becoming  tiresome  with  all  this 
inquisitiveness  about  the  lives  of  others ;  if  you  want  to  know 
about  mine  let  me  tell  you  I  am  Gines  de  Pasamonte,  whose 
life  is  written  by  these  fingers." 

"He  says  true,"  said  the  commissary,  "  for  he  has  himself 
written  his  story  as  grand  as  you  please,  and  has  left  the  book 
in  the  prison  in  pawn  for  two  hundred  reals." 

"  And  I  mean  to  take  it  out  of  pawn,"  said  Gines,  "  though 
it  were  in  for  two  hundred  ducats." 

"  Is  it  so  good  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  So  good  is  it,"  replied  Gines,  "  that  a  fig  for  '  Lazarillo  de 

'  Prov.  7'J. 


164  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Tormes/  and  all  of  that  kind  that  have  been  written,^  or  shall 
be  written,  compared  with  it ;  all  I  will  say  about  it  is  that  it 
deals  with  facts,  and  facts  so  neat  and  diverting  that  no  lies 
could  match  them." 

"  And  how  is  the  book  entitled  ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote. 

''  The  '  Life  of  Gines  de  Pasamonte,"  replied  the  subject 
of  it. 

"■  And  is  it  finished  ?  "  asked  Don  Quixote. 

"  How  can  it  be  finished,"  said  the  other,  <<  when  my  life  is 
not  yet  finished  ?  "  All  that  is  written  is  from  my  birth  down 
to  the  point  when  they  sent  me  to  the  galleys  this  last  time." 

"  Then  you  have  been  there  ]:)ef ore  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  In  the  service  of  God  and  the  king  I  have  been  there  for 
four  years  before  now,  and  I  know  by  this  time  what  the 
biscuit  and  courbash  are  like,"  replied  Gines ;  ''  and  it  is  no 
great  grievance  to  me  to  go  back  to  them,  for  there  I  shall 
have  time  to  finish  my  book ;  I  have  still  many  things  left  to 
say,  and  in  the  galleys  of  Spain  there  is  more  than  enough 
leisure  ;  though  I  do  not  want  much  for  what  I  have  to  write, 
for  I  have  it  by  heart." 

"  You  seem  a  clever  fellow,"  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  And  an  unfortunate  one,"  replied  Gines,  "  for  misfortune 
always  persecutes  wit." 

"  It  persecutes  rogues,"  said  the  commissary. 

"  I  told  you  already  to  go  gently,  master  commissary,"  said 
Pasamonte ;  "  their  lordships  yonder  never  gave  you  that  staff 
to  ill-treat  us  wretches  here,  but  to  conduct  and  take  us  where 
his  majesty  orders  you ;  if  not,  by  the  life  of  —  never  mind  —  ; 
it  may  be  that  some  day  the  stains  made  in  the  inn  will  come 
out  in  the  scouring ;  ^  let  every  one  hold  his  tongue  and  behave 
Avell  and  speak  better ;  and  now  let  us  march  on,  for  we  have 
had  quite  enough  of  this  entertainment." 

The  commissary  lifted  his  staff  to  strike  Pasamonte  in  re- 
turn for  his  threats,  but  Don  Quixote  came  between  them,  and 

'At  the  time  Cervantes  was  writinjj  the  only  hook  of  the  kind  (i.e. 
picaresque  fiction)  that  had  appeared  hesides  Lazarillo  de  Tonnes  was 
Aleman's  Guzman  de  A/farache,  at  which,  it  has  been  suggested,  this 
passage  is  aimed. 

2  Prov.  53.  Clemencin  thinks  that  there  is  an  allusion  here  to  Aleman's 
Guzman  de  Alfarache,  the  hero  of  which  is  sent  to  the  galleys  like  Gines 
de  Pasamonte,  and  at  an  inn  on  the  road  ingratiates  himself  with  the 
commissary  by  presenting  him  with  a  pig  heliad  stolen.  But  Clemencin 
forgot  that  this  incident  occurs  in  the  Second  Part  of  Guzman,  which 
was  not  published  till  after  Don  Quixote. 


CHAPTER    WII.  165 

be^'L^'cd  liiiu  not  to  ill-use  liiiu,  as  it  was  not  too  luiu-h  to  allow 
one  wlio  had  his  hands  tied  to  have  his  tongue  a  trifle  free ; 
and  turning  to  the  whole  chain  of  them  he  said,  "  From  all  you 
have  told  me,  dear  l)rethren,  I  make  out  clearly  that  though 
they  have  punished  you  for  your  faults,  the  punishments  you 
are  about  to  endure  do  not  give  you  much  pleasure,  and  that 
you  go  to  them  very  much  against  the  grain  and  against  ycmr 
will,  and  that  perhaps  this  one's  want  of  courage  under  tortiire, 
that  one's  want  of  money,  the  other's  Avant  of  advocacy,  and 
lastly  the  perverted  judgment  of  the  judge  may  have  been  the 
cause  of  your  ruin  and  of  your  failure  to  obtain  the  justice  you 
had  on  your  side.  All  Avhich  presents  itself  now  to  my  mind, 
urging,  persuading,  and  even  com}ielling  me  to  demonstrate  in 
your  case  the  purpose  for  which  Heaven  sent  me  into  the  Avorld 
and  caused  me  to  make  profession  of  the  order  of  chivalry  to 
which  I  belong,  and  the  vow  I  took  therein  to  give  aid  to  those 
in  need  and  under  the  oppression  of  the  strong.  But  as  I  know 
that  it  is  a  mark  of  prudence  not  to  do  by  foul  means  what 
may  be  done  b}'  fair,  I  will  ask  these  gentlemen,  the  guards 
and  commissary,  to  be  so  good  as  to  release  you  and  let  you 
go  in  peace,  as  there  will  be  no  lack  of  others  to  serve  the  king 
under  more  favorable  circumstances  ;  for  it  seems  to  me  a  hard 
case  to  make  slaves  of  those  whom  God  and  nature  have  niade 
free.  Moreover,  sirs  of  the  guard,"  added  Don  Quixote,  "  these 
poor  fellows  have  done  nothing  to  you ;  let  each  answer  for 
his  own  sins  yonder ;  there  is  a  God  in  heaven  who  will  not 
forget  to  punish  the  wicked  or  reward  the  good ;  and  it  is  not 
fitting  that  honest  men  should  be  the  instruments  of  punish- 
ment to  others,  they  being  therein  no  way  concerned.  This 
request  I  make  thus  gently  and  quietly,  that,  if  you  com})ly 
with  it,  I  may  have  reason  for  thanking  you ;  and,  if  you  will 
not  voluntarily,  this  lance  and  sword  together  v/ith  the  might 
of  my  arm  shall  compel  you  to  comply  with  it  by  force." 

"  ivTice  nonsense !  "  said  the  commissary  ;  '^  a  fine  piece  of 
pleasantry  he  has  come  out  with  at  last !  He  wants  us  to  let 
the  king's  prisoners  go,  as  if  we  had  any  authority  to  release 
them,  or  he  to  order  us  to  do  so  !  Go  yoiir  way,  sir,  aiul  good 
luck  to  you  ;  put  that  basin  straight  that  you've  got  on  your 
head,  and  don't  go  looking  for  three  feet  on  a  cat."  ^ 

"  'T  is  you  that  are  the  cat,  the  rat,  and  the  rascal,"  replied 

'  ProT.  103.  Of  course  it  should  be  "  five  ;  "  and  the  proverl)  is  so  given 
by  Blasco  de  Garay. 


lfi(i  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Don  Quixote,  and  acting  on  the  word  lie  fell  upon  him  so  sud- 
denly that  without  giving  him  time  to  defend  himself  he  brought 
hinr  to  the  ground  sorely  wounded  with  a  lance-thrust,  and  lucky 
ti  was  for  him  that  it  was  the  one  that  had  the  musket.  The 
other  guards  stood  thunderstruck  and  amazed  at  this  unex- 
pected evsnt,  but  recovering  presence  of  mind,  those  on  horse- 
back -^  seized  their  swords,  and  those  on  foot  their  javelins,  and 
attacked  Don  Quixote,  who  Avas  waiting  for  them  with  great 
calmness ;  and  no  doubt  it  would  have  gone  badly  with  him  if 
the  galley  slaves  seeing  the  chance  before  them  of  liberating 
themselves  had  not  effected  it  l)y  contriving  to  break  the  chain 
on  which  they  were  strung.  Such  was  the  confusion,  that  the 
guards,  now  rushing  at  the  galley  slaves  who  were  breaking 
loose,  now  to  attack  Don  Quixote  who  was  waiting  for  them, 
did  nothing  at  all  that  was  of  any  use.  Sancho,  on  his  part, 
gave  a  helping  hand  to  release  Gines  de  Pasamonte,  who  was 
the  first  to  leap  forth  upon  the  plain  free  and  unfettered,  and 
who,  attacking  the  prostrate  commissary,  took  from  him  his 
sword  and  the  musket,  with  which,  aiming  at  one  and  levelling 
at  another,  he,  without  ever  discharging  it,  drove  every  one  of 
the  guards  off  the  field,  for  they  took  to  flight,  as  well  to 
escape  Pasamonte's  musket,  as  the  showers  of  stones  the  now 
released  galley  slaves  were  raining  upon  them.  Sancho  was 
greatly  grieved  at  the  affair,  because  he  anticipated  that  those 
who  had  fled  Avould  report  the  matter  to  the  Holy  Brother- 
hood, who  at  the  summons  of  the  alarm-bell  would  at  once 
sally  forth  in  quest  of  the  offenders ;  and  he  said  so  to  his 
master,  and  entreated  him  to  leave  the  place  at  once,  and  go 
into  hiding  in  the  sierra  that  was  close  by. 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  but  I  know 
what  must  be  done  now ; "  and  calling  together  all  the  galley 
slaves,  who  were  now  running  riot,  and  had  stripped  the  com- 
missary to  the  skin,  he  collected  them  round  him  to  hear  what 
he  had  to  say,  and  addressed  them  as  follows  :  "  To  lie  grateful 
for  benefits  received  is  the  part  of  persons  of  good  birth,  and 
one  of  the  sins  most  offensive  to  God  is  ingratitude  ;  I  say  so 
because,  sirs,  ye  have  already  seen  by  manifest  proof  the  bene- 
fit ye  have  received  from  me  ;  in  return  for  which  I  desire,  and 
it  is  my  good  pleasure  that,  laden  with  that  chain  which  I 
have  taken  off  your  necks,  ye  at  once  set  out  and  proceed  to 

'  At  the  beginning  of  the  chapter  we  were  told  there  were  only  two  on 
horseback,  and  that  both  of  them  had  muskets. 


CHAPTER    XXII.  167 

the  city  of  El  Toboso,  and  there  present  yourselves  before  the 
lady  liulcinea  del  Toboso,  and  say  to  her  that  her  knight,  he 
of  the  Kueful  Countenance,  sends  to  commend  himself  to  her ; 
and  that  ye  recount  to  her  in  full  detail  all  the  particulars  of 
this  notable  adventure,  up  to  the  recovery  of  your  longed-for 
liberty ;  and  this  done  ye  may  go  where  ye  will,  and  good 
fortune  attend  you." 

Gines  de  Pasamonte  made  answer  for  all,  saying,  '^  Thnt 
which  you,  sir,  our  deliverer,  demand  of  us,  is  of  all  impos- 
sibilities the  most  impossible  to  comply  with,  because  we  can 
not  go  together  along  the  roads,  but  only  singly  and  separate, 
and  each  one  his  own  way,  endeavoring  to  hide  ourselves 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth  to  escape  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 
which,  no  doubt,  will  come  out  in  search  of  us.  What 
your  worship  may  do,  and  fairly  do,  is  to  change  this  service 
and  tribute  as  regards  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  for  a 
certain  quantity  of  ave-marias  and  credos  which  we  will  say 
for  your  worship's  intention,^  and  this  is  a  condition  that  can 
be  complied  with  by  night  as  well  as  by  day,  running  or  rest- 
ing, in  peace  or  in  war  ;  but  to  imagine  that  we  are  going  now 
to  return  to  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt,  I  mean  to  take  up  our 
chain  and  set  out  for  El  Toboso,  is  to  imagine  that  it  is  now 
night,  though  it  is  not  yet  ten  in  the  morning,  and  to  ask  this 
of  us  is  like  asking  pears  of  the  elm  tree."  ^ 

"  Then  by  all  that 's  good,"  said  Don  Quixote  (now  stirred  to 

wrath),  "  Don  son  of   a  bitch,  Don  Ginesillo  de  Paropillo,  or 

whatever  your  name  is,  you  will  have  to  go  yourself  alone, 

with  your  tail  between  your  legs  and  the  whole  chain  on  your 

.  back." 

Pasamonte,  who  was  anything  but  meek  (being  by  this  time 
thoroughly  convinced  that  Don  Qviixote  was  not  quite  right  in 
his  head  as  he  had  committed  such  a  vagary  as  trying  to  set 
them  free),  finding  himself  abused  in  this  fashion,  gave  the 
wink  to  his  companions,  and  falling  back  they  began  to  shower 
stones  on  Don  Quixote  at  such  a  rate  that  he  was  quite  unable 
to  protect  liin\self  with  his  buckler,  and  poor  Rocinante  no  more 
heeded  the  spur  than  if  he  had  been  made  of  brass.  Sancho 
planted  himself  behind  his  ass,  and  with  him  sheltered  him- 
self from  the  hailstorm  that  poured  on  both  of  them.  Don 
Quixote  was  unable  to  shield  himself  so  well  but  that  more 

'  To  priiy  for  "  tlie  intention  "  of  another  is  a  proof  of  devotional  sym- 
pathy. '^  Prov.   180. 


168  DON    QUIXOTE. 

pebbles  than  I  could  count  struck  him  full  on  the  body  with 
such  force  that  they  brought  him  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  in- 
stant he  fell  the  student  pounced  upon  him,  snatched  the 
basin  from  his  head,  and  Avith  it  struck  three  or  four  blows  on 
his  shoulders,  and  as  many  more  on  the  ground  knocking  it  al- 
most to  pieces.  They  then  stripped  him  of  a  jacket  that  he 
wore  over  his  armor,  and  they  would  have  stripped  off  his 
stockings  if  his  greaves  had  not  prevented  them.  From  8ancho 
they  took  his  coat,  leaving  him  in  his  shirt-sleeves  ;  and  divid- 
ing among  themselves  the  remaining  spoils  of  the  battle,  they 
went  each  one  his  own  way,  more  solicitous  about  keeping 
clear  of  the  Holy  Brotherhood  they  dreaded,  than  about  bur- 
dening themselves  with  the  chain,  or  going  to  present  themselves 
before  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.  The  ass  and  Rocinante, 
Sancho  and  Don  Quixote,  were  all  that  were  left  upon  the 
spot ;  the  ass  with  drooping  head,  serious,  shaking  his  ears 
from  time  to  time  as  if  he  thought  the  storm  of  stones  that 
assailed  them  was  not  yet  over  ;  Rocinante  stretched  beside  his 
master,  for  he  too  had  been  brought  to  the  groiuid  by  a  stone  ; 
Sancho  stripped,  and  trembling  with  fear  of  the  Holy  Brother- 
hood ;  and  Don  Quixote  fuming  to  find  himself  so  served  by  the 
very  persons  for  whom  he  had  done  so  much. 


CHAPTER     XXIII. 

OF  WHAT  BEFELL  DON  QUIXOTE  IN  THE  SIERRA  MORENA, 
WHICH  WAS  ONE  OF  THE  RAREST  ADVENTURES  RELATED  IN 
THIS    VERACIOUS    HISTOKY. 

Seeing  himself  served  in  this  way,  Don  Quixote  said  to  his 
squire,  "  I  have  always  heard  it  said,  Sancho,  that  to  do  good 
to  boors  is  to  throw  water  into  the  sea.^  If  I  had  believed 
thy  words,  I  should  have  avoided  this  trouble ;  but  it  is  done 
now,  it  is  only  to  have  patience  and  take  warning  from  this 
for  the  future." 

"  Your  worship  will  take  warning  as  much  as  I  am  a  Turk," 
returned  Sancho  ;  "  but,  as  you  say  tliis  mischief  might  have 
been  avoided  if  you  had  believed  me,  believe  me  now,  and  a 
still  greater  one  will  be  avoided ;  for  I  tell  you  chivalry  is  of 

»  Prov.  240. 


CHAPTER    XXIII.  169 

no  account  with  the  Holy  Brotherhood,  and  they  don't  care  two 
maravedis  for  all  the  knights-errant  in  the  world  ;  and  I  can 
tell  yoir^  fancy  I  hear  their  arrows  whistling  past  my  ears  this 
minute." 

"  Thou  art  a  coward  by  nature,  Sanclio,"  said  Don  Quixote, 
"  but  lest  thou  shouldst  say  I  am  obstinate,  and  that  I  never 
do  as  thou  dost  advise,  this  once  I  will  take  thy  advice,  and 
withdraw  out  of  reach  of  that  fury  thou  so  dreadest ;  but  it 
must  be  on  one  condition,  that  never,  in  life  or  in  death,  thou 
art  to  say  to  any  one  that  I  retired  or  withdrew  from  this  danger 
out  of  fear,  but  only  in  compliance  with  thy  entreaties  f  for  if 
thou  sayest  otherwise  thou  wilt  lie  therein,  and  from  this  time 
to  that,  and  from  that  to  this,  I  give  thee  the  lie,  and  say  thou 
liest  and  wilt  lie  every  time  thou  thinkest  or  sayest  it ;  and 
answer  me  not  again  ;  for  at  the  mere  thought  that  I  am  with- 
drawing or  retiring  from  any  danger,  above  all  from  this,  which 
does  seem  to  carry  some  little  shadow  of  fear  with  it,  I  am 
ready  to  take  my  stand  here  and  wait  alone,  not  only  that  Holy 
Brotherhood  you  talk  of  and  dread,  but  the  brothers  of  the 
twelve  tribes  of  Israel,  and  the  seven  Maccabees,  and  Castor 
and  Pollux,  and  all  the  brothers  and  brotherhoods  in  the  world." 

"  Senor,"  replied  8ancho,  "  to  retire  is  not  to  flee,  and  there 
is  no  wisdom  in  waiting  when  danger  outweighs  hope,  and  it 
is  the  part  of  wise  men  to  preserve  themselves  to-day  for  to- 
morrow, and  not  risk  all  in  one  day  ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  though 
I  am  a  clown  and  a  boor,  I  have  got  some  notion  of  what  they 
call  safe  conduct :  so  repeut  not  of  having  taken  my  advice, 
but  mount  Eocinante  if  you  can,  and  if  not  I  will  help  you  ; 
and  follow  me,  for  my  mother-wit  tells  me  we  have  more  need 
of  legs  than  hands  just  now." 

Don  Quixote  mounted  without  replying,  and,  Sancho  leading 
the  way  on  his  ass,  they  entered  the  side  of  the  Sierra  Morena, 
which  was  close  by,  as  it  was  Sancho's  design  to  cross  it  en- 
tirely and  come  out  again  at  El  Viso  or  Almoddvar  del  Campo,^ 
and  hide  for  some  days  among  its  crags  so  as  to  escape  the 

'  These  are  towns  of  La  Manclia,  though  from  the  wording  of  the  passage 
it  might  be  supposed  that  they  lay  on  the  other,  the  Andalusian,  side  of  the 
Sierra  Morena.  It  is  significant  that  Cervantes  always  speaks  of  "  enter- 
ing "  and  "  coming  out  of"  the  Sierra  Morena,  never  of  ascending  or  de- 
scending it:  and,  in  fact,  on  the  north  side  the  Sierra  rises  but  little  above 
the  level  of  the  great  Castilian  plateau  and  the  road  enters  the  gorge  of 
Despenaperros,  and  reaches  the  Andalusian  slope  with  comparatively  little 
ascent. 


170  DON    QUIXOTE. 

search  of  the  Brotherhood  should  they  come  to  look  for  them. 
He  was  encouraged  in  this  by  perceiving  that  the  stock  of  pro- 
visions carried  by  the  ass  had  come  safe  out  of  the  fray  with 
the  galley  slaves,  a  circumstance  that  he  regarded  as  a  miracle, 
seeing  how  they  pillaged  and  ransacked. 

That  night  they  reached  the  very  heart  of  the  Sierra  Morena, 
where  it  seemed  prudent  to  Sancho  to  pass  the  night  an(l  even 
some  days,  at  least  as  many  as  the  stores  he  carried  might  last, 
and  so  they  encamped  between  two  rocks  and  among  some 
cork  trees  ;  but  fatal  destiny,  which,  according  to  the  opinion  of 
those  who  have  not  the  light  of  the  true  faith,  directs,  arranges, 
and  settles  everything  in  its  own  way,  so  ordered  it  that  Gines 
de  Pasamonte,  the  famous  knave  and  thief  who  by  the  virtue 
and  madness  of  Don  Quixote  had  been  released  from  the  chain, 
driven  by  fear  of  the  Holy  Brotherhood,. which  he  had  good 
reason  to  dread,  resolved  to  take  hiding  m  the  mountains  ;  and 
his  fate  and  fear  led  him  to  the  same  spot  to  which  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  had  been  led  by  theirs,  just  in  time 
to  recognize  them  and  leave  them  to  fall  asleep :  and  as  the 
Avicked  are  always  ungrateful,  and  necessity  leads  to  wrong- 
doing, and  immediate  advantage  overcomes  all  considerations 
of  the  future,  Gines,  who  was  neither  grateful  nor  well- 
principled,  made  up  his  mind  to  steal  Sancho  Panza's  ass,  not 
troubling  himself  about  Eocinante,  as  being  a  prize  that  was 
no  good  either  to  pledge  or  sell.  While  Sancho  slept  he  stole 
his  assj  and  before  day  dawned  he  was  far  out  of  reach. 

Aurora  made  her  appearance  bringing  gladness  to  the  earth 
but  sadness  to  Sancho  Panza,  for  he  found  that  his  Dapple  ^ 

' "  Dapple,"  as  I  have  said  elsewhere,  is  not  a  correct  translation  of 
rucio,  but  it  has  by  long  usage  acquired  a  prescriptive  right  to  remain  the 
name  of  Sancho's  ass.  Rucio  is  properly  a  light  or  silvery  gray,  as  pardo 
is  a  dark  or  iron  gray. 

The  passage  —  beginning  at  "  That  night  they  reached  the  very  heart," 
etc.,  and  ending  with  "  returned  thanks  for  the  kindness  shown  him  by  Don 
Quixote  "  —  does  not  appear  in  the  first  edition,  in  which  there  is  no  allu- 
sion to  the  loss  of  the  ass  until  the  middle  of  chapter  xxv.,  where,  without 
any  explanation  of  how  it  happened,  Cervantes  speaks  of  Dapple  as 
having  been  lost.  When  the  second  edition  was  in  the  press,  an  attempt 
was  made  to  remedy  the  oversight,  and  the  printer,  apparently  ^ro^jrt'o 
motu,  supplied  this  passage.  Cliapter  xxx.,  where  Don  Quixote  laments 
the  loss  of  his  "  good  sword,"  suggested  Gines  de  Pasamonte  as  the  thief, 
and  chapter  xxv.  the  promise  of  the  ass-colts;  but  in  such  a  bungling 
manner  was  the  correction  made  that  the  references  to  the  ass  as  if  still 
in  Sancho's  possession  (nine  or  ten  in  number)  were  left  unaltered, 
though  the  first  of  them  occurs  only  four  or  five  lines  after  the  inserted 


CHAPTER    XXI I  I.  171 

was  missing,  and  seeing  himself  bereft  of  liim  lie  began  the 
saddest  and  most  dolefnl  lament  in  the  world,  so  loud  that  Don 
Quixote  awoke  at  his  exclamations  and  heard  him  saying,  "  0 
son  of  my  bowels,  born  in  my  very  house,  my  children's  play- 
thing, my  wife's  joy,  the  envy  of  my  neighbors,  relief  of  my 
burdens,  and,  lastly,  half  supporter  of  myself,  for  with  the  six- 
and-twenty  maravedis  thou  didst  earn  me  daily  I  met  half  my 
charges." 

Don  Quixote,  when  he  heard  the  lament  and  learned  the 
cause,  consoled  Sancho  with  the  best  arguments  he  could,  en- 
treating him  to  be  patient,  and  promising  to  give  hiin  a  letter 
of  exchange  ordering  three  out  of  five  ass-colts  ^  that  he  had  at 
home  to  be  given  to  him.  Sancho  took  comfort  at  this,  dried 
his  tears,  suppressed  his  sobs,  and  returned  thanks  for  the 
kindness  shoAvn  him  by  Don  (^)\iixote.  He  on  his  part  was 
rejoiced  to  the  heart  on  entering  the  mountains,  as  they  seemed 
to  him  to  be  just  the  place  for  the  adventures  he  was  in  quest 
of.  They  brought  back  to  his  memory  the  marvellous  ad- 
ventures that  had  befallen  knights-errant  in  like  solitudes  and 
wilds,  and  he  went  along  reflecting  on  these  things,  so  ab- 
sorbed and  carried  away  by  them  that  he  had  no  thought  for 
anything  else.  Nor  had  Sancho  any  other  care  (now  that  he 
fancied  he  was  travelling  in  a  safe  quarter)  than  to  satisfy  his 
appetite  with  such  remains  as  were  left  of  the  clerical  spoils, 
and  so  he  marched  behind  his  master  laden  with  what  Dapple 
used  to  carry,  emptying  the  sack  and  packing  his  x^aunch,  and 
so  long  as  he  could  go  that  way,  he  would  not  have  given  a 
farthing  to  meet  with  another  adventure. 

While  so  engaged  he  raised  his  eyes  and  saw  that  his  master 

passage.  In  the  third  edition  of  1608  some  of  these  inconsistencies  were 
removed,  and  in  the  Second  Part  Cervantes  refers  to  the  matter,  and 
charges  the  printer  with  the  hlunder.  What  he  originally  intended,  no 
donht,  was  to  supplement  the  bxirlesque  of  the  penance  of  Amadis  by  a 
Imrlesque  of  Brunello's  theft  of  Sacripante's  horse  and  Marfisa's  sword 
at  the  siege  of  Albracca,  as  described  by  Boiardo  and  Ariosto ;  and  it  was 
very  possibly  an  after-thought  written  on  a  loose  leaf  and  so  mislaid  or 
lost  in  transitu,.  The  inserted  passage  is  clearly  not  his,  as  it  is  com- 
pletely ignored  by  him  in  chapters  iii.,  iv.,  and  xxvii.  of  Part  II.,  and  is 
inconsistent  with  the  account  of  the  affair  wliich  he  gives  there.  Ilartzen- 
busch  removes  the  passage  to  what  he  conceives  to  be  its  proper  place  in 
chapter  xxv.,  but  it  is  hardly  worth  while,  perhaps,  to  alter  the  familiar 
arrangement  of  the  next.  See  notes  on  chapter  xxx. ;  and  iii.,  iv.,  and 
xxvii..  Part  II. 

'  Poltinos,  "  ass-colts,"  has  evidently  been  oniitteil  here  in  the  original, 
and  [  have  therefore  supplied  it. 


17^  DON    QUIXOTE. 

had  halted,  and  was  trying  with  the  point  of  his  pike  to  lift 
some  bulky  object  that  lay  upon  the  ground,   on  which  he 
hastened  to  join  him  and  help  him  if  it  were  needful,  and 
reached  him  just  as  Avith  the  point  of  the  pike  he  was  raising 
a  saddle-pad  with  a  valise  attached  to  it,  half  or  rather  wholly 
rotten  and  torn ;  but  so  heavy  were  they  that  Sancho  had  to 
help  to  take  them  up,  and  his  master  directed  him  to  see  what 
the  valise  contained.     Sancho  did  so  with  great  alacrity,  and 
though  the  valise  was  secured  by  a  chain  and  padlock,  from 
its  torn  and  rotten  condition  he  was  able  to  see  its  contents, 
which  were  four  shirts  of  fine  holland,  and  other  articles  of 
linen  no   less  curious  than  clean;  and  in  a  handkerchief  he 
found  a  good  lot  of  gold  crowns,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  them 
he  exclaimed,  "  Blessed  be  all  Heaven  for  sending  us  an  ad- 
venture that  is  good  for  something  !  "     Searching  further  he 
found  a  little    memorandum    book   richly    bound;    this    Don 
Quixote  asked  of  him,  telling  him  to  take  the  money  and  keep 
it  for  himself.     Sancho  kissed  his  hands  for  the  favor,  and 
cleared  the  valise  of  its  linen,  which  he  stowed  away  in  the 
provision  sack.     Considering  the  whole  matter,  Don  Quixote 
observed,  "  It  seems  to  me,  Sancho  —  and  it  is  impossible  it 
can  be  otherwise  —  that  some    strayed   traveller   must   have 
crossed  this  sierra  and  been  attacked  and  slain  by  footpads, 
who  brought  him  to  this  remote  spot  to  bury  him." 

"  That  can  not  be,"  answered  Sancho,  "  because  if  they  had 
been  robbers  they  would  not  have  left  this  money." 

"  Thou  art  right,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  I  can  not  guess  or 
explain  what  this  may  mean ;  but  stay ;  let  us  see  if  in  this 
memorandum  book  there  is  anything  written  by  which  we 
may  be  able  to  trace  out  or  discover  what  we  want  to  know." 

He  opened  it,  and  the  first  thing  he  found  in  it,  written 
roughly  but  in  a  very  good  hand,  was  a  sonnet,  and  reading 
it  aloud  that  Sancho  might  hear  it,  he  found  that  it  ran  as 
follows : 

SONNET, 

Or  Love  is  lacking  in  intelligence, 
Or  to  the  height  of  cruelty  attains. 
Or  else  it  is  my  doom  to  suffer  pains 

Beyond  the  measure  due  to  my  offence. 

But  if  Love  be  a  God,  it  follows  thence 
That  he  knows  all,  and  certain  it  remains 


CHAPTER    XXIII.  178 

No  God  loves  cruelty ;  then  who  ordains 
'■^This  penance  that  inthrals  while  it  torments  ? 
It  were  a  falsehood,  Chloe,  thee  to  name  ; 

Such  evil  with  such  goodness  can  not  live  ; 
And  against  Heaven  I  dare  not  charge  the  blame, 

I  only  know  it  is  my  fate  to  die. 

To  him  Avho  knows  not  whence  his  malady 

A  miracle  alone  a  cure  can  give.'^ 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  learned  from  that  rhyme,"  said 
Sanclio,  "  unless  by  that  clew  there  's  in  it,  oue  may  draw  out 
the  ball  of  the  whole  matter."  "^ 

"  What  clew  is  there  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  thought  your  worship  spoke  of  a  clew  in  it,"  said 
Sancho. 

"  I  only  said  Chloe,"  replied  Don  Quixote ;  "  and  that,  no 
doubt,  is  the  name  of  the  lady  of  whom  the  author  of  the 
sonnet  complains  ;  and,  faith,  he  must  be  a  tolerable  poet,  or 
I  know  little  of  the  craft." 

"  Then  your  worship  understands  rhyming  too  ? "  said 
Sancho. 

"  And  better  than  thou  thinkest,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  as 
thou  shalt  see  when  thou  carriest  a  letter  written  in  verse  from 
beginning  to  end  to  my  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  for  I  would 
have  thee  know,  Sancho,  that  all  or  most  of  the  knights-errant 
in  days  of  yore  were  great  troubadours  and  great  musicians, 
for  both  of  these  accomplishments,  or  more  properly  speaking 
gifts,  are  the  peculiar  property  of  lovers-errant :  true  it  is  that 
the  verses  of  the  knights  of  old  have  more  spirit  than  neatness 
in  them." 

"  Read  more,  your  Avorship,"  said  Sancho,  "  and  you  will 
find  something  that  will  enlighten  us." 

Don  Quixote  turned  the  page  and  said,  "  This  is  prose  and 
seems  to  be  a  letter." 

1  This  sonnet  Cervantes  afterwards  inserted  in  his  comedy  of  the  Casa 
de  los  Zelos,  a  proof  that  he  himself  had  as  good  an  opinion  of  it  as  Don 
Quixote ;  though  Clemencin  says,  and  not  without  some  reason,  that  "  it 
is  no  great  things"  — "  no  vale  gran  cosa." 

^  A  reference  to  tlie  proverhs,  7'or  el  kilo  se  saca  el  ovillo —  "by  the 
tliread  (or  clew)  the  ball  is  drawn  out."  In  the  sonnet  the  lady's  name 
is  Fili,  which  Sancho  mistakes  for  hilo  or  filo.  The  substitution  of 
"  Chloe  "  by  which  the  play  on  the  words  may  be  imitated  is  a  happy  idea 
of  Jervas's  which  has  been  generally  adopted  by  subsequent  translators 
without  any  acknowledgment. 


174  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  A  correspondence  letter,  senor  ?  "  asked  Sancho. 

"  From  the  beginning  it  seems  to  be  a  love-letter,"  replied 
Don  Quixote. 

"  Then  let  your  worship  read  it  aloud,"  said  Sancho,  "for  I 
am  very  fond  of  these  love  matters." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Don  Quixote,  and  reading  it  aloud 
as  Sancho  had  requested  him,  he  found  it  ran  thus  : 

Till/  false  promise  and  iny  sure  misfortune  carry  me  to  a 
place  whence  the  news  of  my  death  will  reach  thy  ears  before 
the  tvords  of  my  complaint.  Ungrateful  one,  thou  hast  re- 
jected me  for  one  more  wealthy,  hut  not  more  worthy  ;  biit  if 
virtue  toere  esteemed  xvealth  I  should  neither  envy  the  fortunes 
of  others  nor  weep  for  misfortunes  of  my  own.  What  thy 
hcaiity  raised  xq)  thy  deeds  liave  laid  low  ;  by  it  I  believed  thee 
to  he  ail.  angel,  by  them  I  hnotv  thou  art  a  woman.  Peace  be 
with  thee  who  hast  sent  war  to  me,  and  Heaven  grant  that  the 
deceit  of  thy  husband  be  ever  hidden  from  thee,  so  that  thou 
repent  not  of  what  thou  hast  done,  and  I  reap  not  a  revenge  I 
would  not  have. 

When  he  had  finished  the  letter,  Don  Quixote  said,  "  There 
is  less  to  be  gathered  from  this  than  from  the  verses,  except 
that  he  who  wrote  it  is  some  rejected  lover ;  "  and  turning  over 
nearly  all  the  pages  of  the  book  he  found  more  verses  and  let- 
ters, some  of  which  he  could  read,  while  others  he  could  not : 
but  they  were  all  made  up  of  com^jlaints,  laments,  misgivings, 
desires  and  aversions,  favors  and  rejections,  some  rapturous, 
some  doleful.  While  Don  Quixote  examined  the  book,  Sancho 
examined  the  valise,  not  leaving  a  corner  in  the  whole  of  it  or 
in  the  pad  that  he  did  not  search,  peer  into,  and  explore,  or 
seam  that  he  did  not  rip,  or  tuft  of  wool  that  he  did  not  pick 
to  pieces,  lest  anything  shoidd  escape  for  want  of  care  and 
pains ;  so  keen  was  the  covetousness  excited  in  him  by  the  dis- 
covery of  the  crowns,  which  amounted  to  near  a  hundred ;  and 
though  he  found  no  more  booty,  he  held  the  blanket  flights, 
balsam  vomits,  stake  benedictions,  carriers'  fisticuffs,  missing 
alforjas,  stolen  coat,  and  all  the  hunger,  thirst,  and  weariness 
lie  had  endured  in  the  service  of  his  good  master,  cheap  at  the 
price ;  as  he  considered  himself  more  than  fully  indemnified  for 
all  by  the  payment  he  received  in  the  gift  of  the  treasure-trove. 

The  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  was  still  very  anx- 
ious to  find  out  who  the  owner  of  the  valise  could  be,  conjectur- 
ing from  the  sonnet  and  letter,  from  the  money  in  gold,  and 


CHAPTER    XX ITT.  175 

from  the  iiueuess  of  the  shirts,  that  he  must  be  some  hjvev  of 
distinction  whom  the  scorn  and  cruelty  of  his  lady  had  driven 
to  some  desperate  course  ;  but  as  in  that  uninhabited  and 
rugged  spot  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  of  whom  he  could  in- 
quire, he  saw  nothing  else  for  it  but  to  push  on  taking  what- 
ever road  Rocinante  chose  —  which  was  where  he  could  make 
his  way  —  firmly  persuaded  that  among  these  wilds  he  could 
not  fail  to  meet  some  rare  adventure.  As  he  went  along,  then, 
occupied  with  these  thoughts,  he  perceived  on  the  summit  of  a 
height  that  rose  before  their  eyes  a  man  Avho  went  springing 
from  rock  to  rock  and  from  tussock  to  tussock  with  marvellous 
agility.  As  well  as  he  could  make  out  he  was  unclad,  with  a 
thick  black  beard,  long  tangled  hair,  and  bare  legs  and  feet, 
his  thighs  were  covered  by  breeches  apparently  of  tawny  velvet 
but  so  ragged  that  they  showed  his  skin  in  several  places.  He 
was  bareheaded,  and  notwithstanding  the  swiftness  with  which 
he  passed  as  has  been  described,  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful 
Countenance  observed  and  noted  all  these  trifles,  and  though 
he  made  the  attempt,  he  was  unable  to  follow  him,  for  it  was 
not  granted  to  the  feebleness  of  Rocinante  to  make  way  over 
such  rough  ground,  he  being,  moreover,  slow-paced  and  sluggish 
by  nature.  Don  Quixote  at  once  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
this  was  the  owner  of  the  saddle-pad  and  of  the  valise,  and 
made  up  his  mind  to  go  in  search  of  him,  even  though  he 
should  have  to  wander  a  year  in  those  mountains  before  he 
found  him,  and  so  he  directed  Sancho  to  take  a  short  cut  over 
one  side  of  the  mountain,  while  he  himself  went  by  the  other, 
and  perhaps  by  this  means  they  might  light  upon  this  man 
who  had  passed  so  quickly  out  of  their  sight. 

"  I  could  not  do  that,"  said  Sancho,  "  for  when  I  separate 
from  your  worship  fear  at  once  lays  hold  of  me,  and  assails 
me  with  all  sorts  of  panics  and  fancies ;  and  let  what  I  now 
say  be  a  notice  that  from  this  time  forth  I  am  not  going  to  stir 
a  finger's  length  from  your  presence." 

<■'  It  shall  be  so,"  said  he  of  the  Rueful  Countenance,  "  and 
I  am  very  glad  that  thou  art  willing  to  rely  on  my  courage, 
which  will  never  fail  thee,  even  though  the  soul  in  thy  body 
fail  thee ;  so  come  on  now  behind  me  slowly  as  well  as  thou 
canst,  and  make  lanterns  of  thine  eyes ;  let  us  make  the  cir- 
cuit of  this  ridge  ;  perhaps  we  shall  light  upon  this  man  that 
we  saw,  who  no  doubt  is  no  other  than  the  owner  of  what  we 
found." 


176  DON    QUIXOTE. 

To  which  Sancho  made  answer,  "  Far  better  -vvoukl  it  be  not 
to  look  for  him,  for  if  we  find  him,  and  lie  happens  to  be  the 
owner  of  the  money,  it  is  plain  I  mu.st  restore  it ;  it  would  be 
better,  therefore,  that  without  taking  this  needless  trouble,  I 
should  keep  possession  of  it  until  in  some  other  less  meddle- 
some and  officious  way  the  real  owner  may  be  discovered  ;  and 
perhaps  that  will  be  when  I  shall  have  spent  it,  and  then  the 
king  will  hold  me  harmless." 

"  Thou  art  wrong  there,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  now 
that  we  have  a  suspicion  who  the  owner  is,  and  have  him 
almost  before  us,  we  are  bound  to  seek  him  and  make  restitu- 
tion ;  and  if  we  do  not  seek  him,  the  strong  suspicion  we  have 
as  to  his  being  the  owner  makes  us  as  guilty  as  if  he  were  so ; 
and  so,  friend  Sancho,  let  not  our  search  for  him  give  thee  any 
uneasiness,  for  if  Ave  find  him  it  will  relieve  mine." 

And  so  saying  he  gave  Rocinante  the  spur,  and  Sancho 
followed  him  on  foot  and  loaded,  thanks  to  Ginesillo  de  Pasa- 
monte,  and  after  having  partly  made  the  circuit  of  the  moun- 
tain they  found  lying  in  a  ravine,  dead  and  half  devoured  by 
dogs  and  pecked  by  crows,  a  mule  saddled  and  bridled,  all 
which  still  further  strengthened  their  sus})icion  that  he  who 
had  fled  was  the  owner  of  the  nude  and  the  saddle-pad. 

As  they  stood  looking  at  it  they  heard  a  whistle  like  that  of 
a  shepherd  watching  his  flock,  and  suddenly  on  their  left  there 
appeared  a  great  number  of  goats,  and  behind  them  on  the 
summit  of  the  mountain  the  goatherd  in  charge  of  them,  a 
man  advanced  in  years.  Don  Quixote  called  aloud  to  him  and 
begged  him  to  come  down  to  where  they  stood.  He  shouted 
in  return,  asking  what  had  brought  them  to  that  spot,  seldom 
or  never  trodden  except  by  the  feet  of  goats,  or  of  the  wolves 
aiul  other  Avild  beasts  that  roamed  around.  Sancho  in  return 
bade  him  come  down,  and  they  would  explain  all  to  him. 

The  goatherd  descended,  and  reaching  the  place  where  Don 
Quixote  stood,  he  said,  "  I  will  wager  you  are  looking  at  that 
hack  mule  that  lies  dead  in  the  hollow  there,  and,  faith,  it 
has  been  lying  there  now  these  six  months ;  tell  me,  have  you 
come  upon  its  master  about  here  ?  " 

"  We  have  come  upon  nobody,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  "  nor 
on  anything  except  a  saddle-pad  and  a  little  valise  that  we 
found  not  far  from  this." 

"  I  found  it  too,"  said  the  goatherd,  ''  but  I  would  not  lift 
it  nor  go  near  it  for  fear  of  some  ill-luck  or  being  charged  with 


CHAPTER    XX in.  177 

theft,  for  the  devil  is  crafty,  and  things  rise  up  under  one's 
feet  to  make  one  stumble  and  fall  without  knowing  why  or 
wherefore." 

"  That 's  exactly  what  I  say,"  said  Sancho  ;  "  I  found  it  too, 
and  I  would  not  go  within  a  stone's  throw  of  it ;  there  I  left 
it,  and  there  it  lies  just  as  it  was,  for  I  don't  want  a  dog  with 
a  bell."  1 

'<  Tell  me,  good  man,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  do  you  know  who 
is  the  oAvner  of  this  property  ?  " 

"  All  I  can  tell  you,"  said  the  goatherd,  "  is  that  about  six 
months  ago,  niQi'e  or  less,  there  arrived  at  a  shepherd's  hut 
three  leagues,  perhaps,  away  from  this,  a  youth  of  well-bred 
appearance  and  manners,  mounted  on  that  same  mule  which 
lies  dead  here,  and  with  the  same  saddle-pad  and  valise  which 
you  say  you  found  and  did  not  touch.  He  asked  us  what  part 
of  this  sierra  was  the  most  rugged  and  retired ;  we  told  him 
that  it  was  where  we  now  are ;  and  so  in  truth  it  is,  for  if  you 
push  on  half  a  league  farther,  perhaps  you  will  not  be  able  to 
find  your  way  out ;  and  I  am  wondering  how  you  have  managed 
to  come  here,  for  there  is  no  road  or  path  that  leads  to  this 
spot.  I  say,  then,  that  on  hearing  our  answer  the  youth  turned 
about  and  made  for  the  place  we  pointed  oiit  to  him,  leaving 
us  all  charmed  with  his  good  looks,  and  wondering  at  his  ques- 
tion and  the  haste  Avith  Avhich  we  saw  him  depart  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  sierra ;  and  after  that  we  saw  him  no  more,  until 
some  days  afterwards  he  crossed  the  path  of  one  of  our  shep- 
herds, and  without  saying  a  word  to  him,  came  up  to  him  and 
gave  him  several  cuffs  and  kicks,  and  then  turned  to  the  ass 
with  our  provisions  and  took  all  the  bread  and  cheese  it  carried, 
and  having  done  this  made  off  back  again  into  the  sierra  Avith 
extraordinary  SAviftness.  When  some  of  us  goatherds  learned 
this  Ave  Avent  in  search  of  him  for  about  tAVO  days  through  the 
most  remote  portion  of  this  sierra,  at  the  end  of  Avhich  Ave 
found  him  lodged  in  the  holloAV  of  a  large  thick  cork  tree.  He 
came  out  to  meet  us  Avith  great  gentleness,  wdth  his  dress  noAV 
torn  and  his  face  so  disfigured  and  burned  by  the  sun,  that  Ave 
hardly  recognized  him  but  that  his  clothes,  though  torn,  con- 
vinced us,  from  the  recollection  Ave  had  of  them,  that  he  Avas 
the  person  Ave  were  looking  for.  He  saluted  us  courteously, 
and  in  a  fcAv  Avell-spoken  words  he  told  us  not  to  Avonder  at 

'  Prov.  182  —  meaning,  I  don't  want  a  thing  that  has  any  inconvenience 
attached  tu  it. 

Vol.  1.  — 12. 


178  DON    QUIXOTE. 

seeing  liini  going  about  in  this  guise,  as  it  was  binding  upon 
him  in  order  that  he  might  work  out  a  penance  which  for  his 
many  sins  had  been  imposed  upon  him.  We  asked  him  to 
tell  us  who  he  was,  but  we  were  never  able  to  find  out  from 
him  :  we  begged  of  him  too,  when  he  was  in  want  of  food, 
which  he  could  not  do  without,  to  tell  us  where  we  should  hnd 
him,  as  we  would  bring  it  to  him  with  all  good-will  and  readi- 
ness ;  or  if  this  were  not  to  his  taste,  at  least  to  come  and  ask 
it  of  us  and  not  take  it  by  force  from  the  shepherds.  He 
thanked  us  for  the  offer,  begged  pardon  for  the  late  assault, 
and  promised  for  the  futiire  to  ask  it  in  Clodjs  name  without 
offering  violence  to  anybody.  As  for  fixed  abode,  he  said  he 
had  no  other  than  that  which  chance  offered  wherever  night 
might  overtake  him ;  and  his  words  ended  in  an  outburst  of 
weeping  so  bitter  that  we  who  listened  to  him  must  have  been 
very  stones  had  we  not  joined  him  in  it,  comparing  what  we 
saw  of  him  the  first  time  with  what  we  saw  now ;  for,  as  I 
said,  he  was  a  graceful  and  gracious  youth,  and  in  his  coiu'teous 
and  polished  language  showed  himself  to  be  of  good  birth  and 
courtly  breeding,  and  rustics  as  we  were  that  listened  to  him, 
even  to  om-  rusticity  his  gentle  bearing  sufficed  to  make  it  plain. 
But  in  the  midst  of  his  conversation  he  stopped  and  became 
silent,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  grouncl  for  some  time, 
during  which  we  stood  still  waiting  anxiously  to  see  what 
would  come  of  this  abstraction ;  and  with  no  little  pity,  for 
from  his  behavior,  now  staring  at  the  ground  with  fixed  gaze 
and  eyes  wide  open  Avithout  moving  an  eyelid,  again  closing 
them,  compressing  his  lips  and  raising  his  eyebrows,  we  could 
perceive  plainly  that  a  fit  of  madness  of  some  kind  had  come 
upon  him  ;  and  before  long  he  showed  that  what  we  imagined 
was  the  truth,  for  he  arose  in  a  fury  from  the  ground  where 
he  had  thrown  himself,  and  attacked  the  first  he  found  near 
him  Avith  such  rage  and  fierceness  that  if  we  had  not  dragged 
him  off  him,  he  would  have  beaten  or  bitten  him  to  death,  all 
the  while  exclaiming,  '  Oh  faithless  Eernando,  here,  here  shalt 
thou  pay  the  penalty  of  the  wrong  thou  hast  done  me ;  these 
hands  shall  tear  out  that  heart  of  thine,  abode  and  dwelling  of 
all  iniquity,  but  of  deceit  and  fraud  above  all ; '  and  to  these 
he  added  other  words  all  in  effect  upbraiding  this  Fernando 
and  charging  him  with  treachery  and  faithlessness.  We  forced 
him  to  release  his  hold  with  no  little  difficulty,  and  without 
another  Avord  he  left  us,  and  rushing  off  plunged  in  among 


CHAPTER    XXI 1 1.  179 

these  brakes  and  brambles,  so  as  to  make  it  impossible  for  us 
to  follow  him ;  from  this  we  suppose  that  madness  comes  upon 
him  from  time  to  time,  and  that  some  one  called  Fernando 
must  have  done  him  a  wrong  of  a  grievous  nature  such  as  the 
condition  to  which  it  had  brought  him  seemed  to  show.  All 
this  has  been  since  then  confirmed  on  those  occasions,  and  they 
have  been  many,  on  which  he  has  crossed  our  path,  at  one  time 
to  beg  the  shepherds  to  give  him  some  of  the  food  they  carry, 
at  another  to  take  it  from  them  by  force ;  for  when  there  is  a 
fit  of  madness  upon  him,  even  though  the  shepherds  offer  it 
freely,  he  will  not  accept  it  but  snatches  it  from  them  by  dint 
of  blows  ;  but  when  he  is  in  his  senses  he  begs  it  for  the  love 
of  God,  courteously  and  civilly,  and  receives  it  with  many 
thanks  and  not  a  few  tears.  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  sirs," 
continued  the  goatherd,  "  it  was  yesterday  that  we  resolved, 
I  and  four  of  the  lads,  two  of  them  our  servants,  and  the  other 
two  friends  of  mine,  to  go  in  search  of  him  until  we  find  him, 
and  when  we  do  to  take  him,  whether  by  force  or  of  his  own 
consent,  to  the  town  of  Almoddvar,  which  is  eight  leagues  from 
this,  and  there  strive  to  cure  him  (if  indeed  his  malady  admits 
of  a  cure),  or  learn  when  he  is  in  his  senses  who  he  is,  and  if 
he  has  relatives  to  whom  we  may  give  notice  of  his  misfortune. 
This,  sirs,  is  all  I  can  say  in  answer  to  what  you  have  asked 
me ;  and  be  sure  that  the  owner  of  the  articles  you  found  is  he 
whom  you  saw  pass  by  with  such  nimbleness  and  so  naked." 
For  Don  Quixote  had  already  described  how  he  had  seen  the 
man  go  bounding  along  the  mountain  side,  and  he  was  now 
filled  with  amazement  at  what  he  heard  from  the  goatherd, 
and  more  eager  than  ever  to  discover  who  the  unhappy  mad- 
man was ;  and  in  his  heart  he  resolved,  as  he  had  done  before, 
to  search  for  him  all  over  the  mountain,  not  leaving  a  corner 
or  cave  unexamined  until  he  had  found  him.  But  chance  ar- 
ranged matters  better  than  he  expected  or  hoped,  for  at  that 
very  moment,  in  a  gorge  on  the  mountain  that  opened  where 
they  stood,  the  youth  he  wished  to  find  made  his  appearance, 
coming  along  talking  to  himself  in  a  way  that  would  have  been 
unintelligible  near  at  hand,  much  more  at  a  distance.  His 
garb  was  what  has  been  described,  save  that  as  he  drew  near, 
Don  Quixote  perceived  that  a  tattered  doublet  which  he  wore 
was  amber-scented,^  from  which   he  concluded  that  one  avIio 

'  This  is  the  exphmation  commonly  given  of  the  phrase  de  dmhar^  and 
it  is  true  that  scented  doublets  were  in  fashion  in  the  sixteenth  century  ; 


180  DON    QUIXOTE. 

wore  sucli  garments  could  not  be  of  very  low  rank.  Approach- 
ing them,  the  youth  greeted  them  in  a  harsh  and  hoarse  voice 
but  with  great  courtesy.  Don  Quixote  returned  his  salutation 
with  equal  politeness,  and  dismounting  from  Eocinante  ad- 
vanced with  Avell-bred  bearing  and  grace  to  embrace  him,  and 
held  him  for  some  time  close  in  his  arms  as  if  he  had  known 
him  for  a  long  time.  The  other,  whom  we  may  call  the 
Ragged  One  of  the  Sorry  Countenance,  as  Don  Quixote  was  of 
the  Rueful,  after  submitting  to  the  embrace  pushed  him  back 
a  little  and,  placing  his  hands  on  Don  Quixote's  shoulders, 
stood  gazing  at  him  as  if  seeking  to  see  whether  he  knew  him, 
not  less  aniazed,  perhaps,  at  the  sight  of  the  face,  figure,  and 
armor  of  Don  Quixote  than  Don  Quixote  was  at  the  sight  of 
him.  To  be  brief,  the  first  to  speak  after  embracing  was  the 
Ragged  One,  and  he  said  what  will  be  told  farther  on. 


CHAPTER     XXIV. 

IN    WHICH    IS     CONTINUED     THE     ADVENTURE     OF     THE     SIERRA 

MORENA. 

The  history  relates  that  it  was  with  the  greatest  attention 
Don  Quixote  listened  to  the  ill-starred  Knight  of  the  Sierra, 
who  began  by  saying,  "  Of  a  surety,  senor,  whoever  you  are,  for 
I  know  you  not,  I  thank  you  for  the  proofs  of  kindness  and 
courtesy  you  have  shown  me,  and  would  I  were  in  a  condition 
to  requite  with  something  more  than  good-will  that  which  you 
have  displayed  towards  me  in  the  cordial  reception  you  have 
given  me ;  but  my  fate  does  not  afford  me  any  other  means  of 
returning  kindnesses  done  me  save  the  hearty  desire  to  repay 
them." 

"  Mine,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  is  to  be  of  service  to  you, 
so  much  so  that  I  had  resolved  not  to  quit  these  mountains 
until  I  had  found  you,  and  learned  of  you  whether  there  is  any 
kind  of  relief  to  be  found  for  that  sorrow  under  which  from 
the  strangeness  of  your  life  you  seem  to  labor ;  and  to  search 
for  you  with  all  possible  diligence,  if  search  had  been  necessary. 

but  it  seems  somewhat  improbable  that  a  tattered  doublet  which  had  been 
for  six  months  exposed  to  all  weathers  would  have  retained  sufficient  per- 
fume to  be  detected. 


CHAPTER     XXIV.  181 

And  if  your  luisfortune  should  prove  to  be  one  of  those  tliat 
refuse  admission  to  any  sort  of  consolation,  it  was  my  i)urpose 
to  join  you  in  Uimenting  and  mourning  over  it,  so  far  as  I 
could;  for  it  is  still  some  comfort  in  misfortune  to  find  one  who 
can  feel  for  it.  And  if  my  good  intentions  deserve  to  be  acknowl- 
edged with  any  kind  of  courtesy,  I  entreat  you,  seiior,  by  that 
which  I  perceive  you  possess  in  so  high  a  degree,  and  likewise 
conjure  you  by  whatever  you  love  or  have  loved  best  in  life,  to 
tell  me  who  you  are  and  the  cause  that  has  brought  you  to  live 
or  die  in  these  solitudes  like  a  brute  beast,  dwelling  among 
them  in  a  manner  so  foreign  to  your  condition  as  your  garb 
and  appearance  show.  And  I  swear,"  added  Don  Quixote,  "  by 
the  order  of  knighthood  which  I,  though  unworthy  and  a 
sinner,  have  received,  and  by  my  vocation  of  knight-errant,  if 
you  gratify  me  in  this,  to  serve  yoii  Avith  all  the  zeal  my  calling- 
demands  of  me,  either  in  I'elieving  your  misfortune  if  it  admits 
of  relief,  or  in  joining  you  in  lamenting  it  as  T  promised  to  do." 
The  Knight  of  the  Thicket,  hearing  him  of  the  Rueful 
Countenance  talk  in  this  strain,  did  nothing  but  stare  at  him, 
and  stare  at  him  again,  and  again  survey  him  fi'om  head  to 
foot ;  and  when  he  had  thoroughly  examined  him,  he  said  to 
him,  "  If  you  have  anything  to  give  me  to  eat,  for  God's  sake 
give  it  me,  and  after  I  have  eaten  I  will  do  all  you  ask  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  good-will  you  have  displayed  towards 
me." 

Sancho  from  his  sack,  and  the  goatherd  from  his  pouch, 
furnished  the  Ragged  One  Avith  the  means  of  appeasing  his 
hunger,  and  what  they  gave  him  he  ate  like  a  half-witted  being, 
so  hastily  that  he  took  no  time  l)etween  monthfuls,  gorging 
rather  than  swallowing  ;  and  while  he  ate  neither  he  nor  they 
who  observed  him  uttered  a  word.  As  soon  as  he  had  done  he 
made  signs  to  them  to  follow  him,  which  they  did,  and  he  led 
them  to  a  green  plat  which  lay  a  little  farther  off  around  the 
corner  of  a  rock.  On  reaching  it  he  stretched  himself  iipon 
the  grass,  and  the  others  did  the  same,  all  keeping  silence,  until 
the  Ragged  One,  settling  himself  in  his  place,  said,  "  If  it  is 
your  wish,  sirs,  that  I  shoidd  disclose  in  a  few  words  the  sur- 
]>assing  extent  of  my  misfortunes,  you  must  promise  not  to 
break  the  thread  of  my  sad  story  with  any  question  or  other 
interruption,  for  the  instant  you  do  so  the  tale  I  tell  will  come 
to  an  end." 

These  words  of  the  Ragged  One  reminded  Don  Quixote  of  the 


182  DON    QUIXOTE. 

tale  his  squire  had  tokl  him,  when  he  failed  to  keep  count  of 
the  goats  that  had  crossed  the  river  and  the  story  remained  un- 
finished ;  but  to  return  to  the  Eagged  One,  he  went  on  to  say, 
"  I  give  you  this  Avarning  because  I  wish  to  pass  briefly  over 
the  story  of  my  misfortunes,  for  recalling  them  to  memory  only 
serves  to  add  fresh  ones,  and  the  less  you  question  me  the 
sooner  shall  I  make  an  end  of  the  recital,  though  I  shall  not 
omit  to  relate  anything  of  importance  in  order  fully  to  satisfy 
your  curiosity." 

Don  Quixote  gave  the  promise  for  himself  and  the  others, 
and  with  this  assurance  he  began  as  foUoAvs  :  - 

My  name  is  C'ardenio,  my  birthplace  one  of  the  best  cities  of  this 
Andakisia,'  my  family  noljle,  my  parents  rich,  my  misfortune  so 
great  that  my  ])arents  must  have  Avept  and  my  family  grieved  over 
5.  Avithout  being  able  by  their  wealth  to  lighten  it;  for  the  gifts  of 
fortune  can  do  little  to  relieve  reverses  sent  by  Heaven.  In  that 
same  country  there  Avas  a  heaven  in  which  love  had  placed  all  the 
glory  I  could  desire  ;  such  Avas  the  beauty  of  Luscinda.  a  damsel  as 
noble  and  as  rich  as  I,  but  of  happier  fortunes,  and  of  less  firmness 
than  Avas  due  to  so  worthy  a  passion  as  mine.  This  kuscinda  I  loved, 
Avorshipped,  and  adored  from  my  earliest  and  tenderest  years,  and 
she  loved  me  in  all  the  innocence  and  sincerity  of  childhood.  Our 
parents  were  aAvare  of  our  feelings,  and  Avere  not  sorry  to  perceive 
them,  for  they  saw  clearly  that  as  they  ripened  they  must  lead  at  last 
to  a  marriage  betAveen  us,  a  thing  that  seemed  almost  pre-arranged 
by  the  equality  of  our  families  and  Avealth.  We  grcAV  up,  and  Avith 
our  growth  greAV  the  love  between  us,  so  that  the  father  of  Luscinda 
felt  bound  for  propriety's  sake  to  refuse  me  admission  to  his  house, 
in  this  perhaps  imitating  the  parents  of  that  Thisbe  so  celebrated  by 
the  poets,  and  this  refusal  but  added  love  to  love  and  flame  to  flame ; 
for  though  they  enforced  silence  upon  our  tongues  they  could  not 
impose  it  upon  our  pens,  Avhich  can  make  known  the  heart's  secrets 
to  a  loved  one  more  freely  than  tongues ;  for  many  a  time  the  pres- 
ence of  the  object  of  love  shakes  the  firmest  Avill  and  strikes  dumb 
the  boldest  tongue.  Ah  heavens  !  hoAV  many  letters  did  I  Avrite  her, 
and  hoAv  many  daintj' modest  replies  did  I  receive  !  hoAv  many  ditties 
and  love-songs  did  I  compose  in  Avhic-h  my  heart  declared  and  made 
knoAvn  its  feelings,  described  its  ardent  longings,  revelled  in  its  rec- 

'  Tliis  indicates  tliat  the  spot  Cervantes  had  in  liis  eye  vas  somewhere 
above  tlie  head  of  the  Despenaperros  gorge  and  commanding  a  view  of 
the  valley  of  the  Guadalquivir ;  and  the  scenery  there  agrees  with  his  de- 
scription. He  Avas,  no  doulit,  familiar  with  it  from  having  passed  through 
it  on  his  journeys  between  Madrid  and  Seville  in  the  years  between  1587 
and  1598.  The  broom,  mentioned  farther  on,  is  very  abundant  in  this 
part  of  tlie  Sierra  Morena.  The  name  of  Cardenio,  too,  was  probably 
suggested  by  Vcnta  de  Gardenas,  a  halting  place  at  the  mouth  of  the 
gorge.      (  V.  map.) 


CHAPTER    XXIV.  183 

oUectioBS  and  dallied  with  its  desires!  At  length  growing  impatient 
and  feeling  my  heart  languishing  with  longing  to  see  her,  I  resolved 
to  put  into  execution  and  carry  out  wliat  seemed  to  me  the  best  mode 
of  winning  my  desired  and  merited  reward,  to  ask  her  of  her  father 
for  my  lawful  wife,  which  1  did.  To  this  his  answer  was  that  he 
thanked  me  for  the  disposition  1  showed  to  do  honor  to  hiiu  and  to 
reo-ard  myself  as  honored  hy  the  bestowal  of  his  treasure  ;  but  that 
as  my  father  was  alive  it  was  his  by  right  to  make  this  demand,  for 
if  it  were  not  in  accordance  with  his  full  will  and  pleasure,  Luscinda 
was  not  to  be  taken  or  given  by  stealth.  I  thanked  him  for  his  kind- 
ness, reflecting  that  there  was  reason  in  what  he  said,  and  that  my 
father  would  assent  to  it  as  soon  as  I  sliould  tell  him,  and  with  that 
view  I  went  the  very  same  instant  to  let  him  know  what  my  desires 
were.  When  I  entered  the  room  where  he  was  I  found  him  Avith  an 
open  letter  in  his  hand,  wliieh,  before  I  could  utter  a  word,  he  gave 
me,  saying,  "  By  this  letter  thou  wilt  see,  Cardenio,  the  disposition 
the  Duke  Ricardo  has  to  serve  thee."  This  Duke  Ricardo,  as  you, 
sirs,  probably  know  already,  is  a  grandee '  of  Spain  who  has  his  seat 
in  the  best  part  of  this  Andalusia.  I  took  and  read  the  letter,  which 
was  couched  in  terms  so  flattering  that  even  I  myself  felt  it  would 
be  wrong  in  my  father  not  to  comply  witii  the  request  the  duke  made 
in  it,  which  was  that  he  would  send  me  immediately  to  him,  as  he 
wished  me  to  become  the  conii^anion,  not  servant,  of  his  eldest  son, 
and  would  take  upon  himself  the  charge  of  placing  me  in  a  position 
corresponding  to  the  esteem  in  which  he  held  me.  On  reading  the 
letter  my  voice  failed  me,  and  still  more  when  I  heard  my  father  say, 
"  Two  days  hence  thou  wilt  depart,  Cardenio,  in  accordance  with  the 
duke's  wish,  and  give  thanks  to  God  who  is  oi^ening  a  road  to  thee 
b}'  which  thou  mayest  attain  what  I  know  thou  dost  deserve  ;  "  and 
to  these  words  he  added  others  of  fatherly  counsel.  The  time  for 
my  departure  arrived  ;  I  spoke  one  night  to  Luscinda,  T  told  her  all 
that  had  occurred,  as  I  did  also  to  her  father,  entreating  him  to  allow 
some  delay,  and  to  defer  the  disposal  of  her  hand  until  I  should  see 
what  the  Duke  Ricai'do  sought  of  me  :  he  gave  me  the  promise,  and 
she  confirmed  it  with  vows  and  swoonings  imnumbered.  Finally,  I 
presented  myself  to  the  duke,  and  was  received  and  treated  by  him 
so  kindly  that  very  soon  envy  began  to  do  its  work,  the  old  servants 
growing  envious  of  me,  and  regarding  the  duke's  inclination  to  show 
me  favor  as  an  injury  to  themselves.  But  the  one  to  whom  my  ar- 
rival gave  the  greatest  pleasure  was  the  duke's  second  son,  Fernando 
by  name,  a  gallant  youth,  of  noble,  generous,  and  amorous  dispo- 
sition, who  very  soon  made  so  intimate  a  friend  of  me  that  it  was 
remarked  by  everybody ;  for  though  the  elder  was  attached  to  me, 
and  showed  me  kindness,  he  did  not  carry  his  aftectionate  treatment 
to  the  same  length  as  Don  Fernando.  It  so  happened,  then,  that  as 
between  friends  no  secret  remains  imshared,  and  as  the  intimacy  I 
enjoyed  with  Don  Fernando  had  grown  into  friendship,  he  made  all 

'  Grande  de  Espana  —  one  enjoying  the  privilege  of  remaining  covered 
ill  tlu'  presence  of  the  sovereign. 


184  DON    QUIXOTE. 

his  thoughts  known  to  me,  and  in  i)ai-ticular  a  love  affair  which 
troubled  his  mind  a  little.  He  was  deeply  in  love  with  a  peasant 
girl,  a  vassal  of  his  father's,  the  daugliter  of  wealthy  parents,  and 
herself  so  beautiful,  modest,  discreet,  and  virtuous,  tliat  no  one  who 
knew  her  was  able  to  decide  in  wliicli  of  these  respects  she  was  most 
highly  gifted  or  most  excelled.  The  attractions  of  the  fair  peasant 
raised  the  j^assion  of  Don  Fernando  to  such  a  point  that,  in  order  to 
gain  his  object  and  overcome  her  virtuous  resolutions,  he  determined 
to  pledge  his  word  to  her  to  become  lier  husband,  for  to  attempt  it 
ia  any  other  way  was  to  attempt  an  impossibility.  Bound  to  him  as 
1  was  by  friendship,  I  strove  by  the  best  arguments  and  the  most 
fonnble  examples  J  could  think  of  to  restrain  and  dissuade  him  from 
such  a  course ;  but  perceiving  I  produced  no  effect  I  resolved  to 
make  the  Duke  Ricardo,  his  father,  acquainted  with  the  matter ;  but 
Don  Fernando,  being  sharp-witted  and  shrewd,  foresaw  and  appre- 
hended this,  perceiving  that  by  my  duty  as  a  good  servant  1  was 
bound  not  to  keep  concealed  a  thing  so  much  opposed  to  the  honor 
of  my  lord  the  duke ;  and  so,  to  mislead  and  deceive  me,  he  told  me 
he  could  find  no  better  way  of  ettacing  from  his  mind  the  beauty 
that  so  enslaved  him  than  by  absenting  himself  for  some  months, 
and  tluit  he  wished  the  absence  to  be  effected  by  our  going,  both  of 
us,  to  my  father's  house  under  the  pretence,  which  he  would  make 
to  the  duke,  of  going  to  see  and  buy  some  fine  horses  that  there  were 
in  my  city,  which  i)roduces  the  best  in  the  world.'  When  I  heard 
liim  say  so,  even  if  his  resolution  had  not  been  so  good  a  one  I 
should  have  hailed  it  as  one  of  the  happiest  that  could  be  imagined, 
prompted  by  my  affection,  seeing  what  a  favorable  chance  and  op- 
jjortunity  it  offered  me  of  returning  to  see  my  Luscinda.  With  this 
thought  :wid  wish  I  commended  his  idea  and  encouraged  his  design, 
advising  him  to  put  it  into  execution  as  quickly  as  possible,  as,  in 
truth,  absence  produced  its  effect  in  spite  of  the  most  deeply  rooted 
feelings.  But,  as  afterwards  ap^jearcd,  when  he  said  this  to  me  lie 
liad  already  enjoyed  the  peasant  girl  under  the  title  of  husband,  and 
was  waiting  for  an  opportunity  of  making  it  known  with  safety  to 
himself,  being  in  dread  of  what  his  father  the  duke  would  do  Avhen 
he  came  to  know  of  his  folly.  It  happened,  then,  that  as  Avith  young 
men  love  is  for  the  most  part  nothing  more  than  appetite,  which,  as 
its  final  object  is  enjoyment,  comes  to  an  end  on  obtaining  it,  and 
that  which  seemed  to  be  love  takes  to  flight,  as  it  can  not  pass  the 
limit  fixed  by  nature,  which  fixes  no  limit  to  true  love'-'  —  what  I 
mean  is  that  after  Don  Fernando  had  enjoyed  this  peasant  girl  his 
passion  subsided  and  his  eagerness  cooled,  as  if  at  first  he  feigned  a 
wish  to  absent  himself  in  order  to  cure  his  love,  he  was  now  in 
reality  anxious  to  go  to  avoid  keeping  his  promise. 

The  duke  gave  him  permission,  and  ordered  me  to  accompany  him  ; 
we  arrived  at  my  city,  and  my  father  gave  him  the  reception  due  to 

'  Cordova  was  fan;cd  for  its  horses. 

^  This  is  an  example  of  the  clumsy  manner  in  which  Cervantes  often 
constructed  his  sentences,  beginning  them  in  one  way  and  ending  them  in 
another. 


CHAPTER    XXIV.  185 

his  rank  ;  I  saw  Luscinda  without  dehiy,  and,  though  it  had  not  been 
dead  or  deadened,  my  love  gathered  fresh  life.  To  my  sorrow  1  told 
the  stoi-y  of  it  to  Don  Fernando,  for  1  thought  that  in  virtue  of  the 
great  friendship  he  bore  me  I  was  bound  to  conceal  nothing  from 
him.  I  extolled  her  beauty,  her  gayety,  her  wit,  so  warml}',  that 
my  praises  excited  in  him  a  desire  to  see  a  damsel  adorned  by  such 
attractions.  To  my  misfortune  J  yielded  to  it,  showing  her  to  him 
one  night  by  the  light  of  a  taper  at  a  window  where  we  used  to  talk 
to  one  another.  As  she  ajipeafed  to  him  in  her  dressing-gown,  she 
drove  all  the  beauties  he  had  seen  until  then  out  of  his  recollection  ; 
speech  failed  him,  his  head  turned,  he  was  spell-bound,  and  in  the 
end  love-smitten,  as  you  will  see  in  the  course  of  the  story  of  my 
misfortune;  and  to  inflame  still  further  his  passion,  which  he  hid 
from  me  and  revealed  to  Heaven  alone,  it  so  haj^pened  that  one  day 
he  found  a  note  of  hers  entreating  me  to  demand  her  of  her  father  in 
marriage,  so  delicate,  so  modest,  and  so  tender,  that  on  reading  it 
he  told  me  that  in  ]>uscinda  alone  were  combined  all  the  charms  of 
beauty  and  understanding  that  wei*e  distributed  among  all  the  other 
women  in  the  world.  It  is  true,  and  1  own  it  now,  that  though  I 
knew  what  good  cause  Don  P"ernando  had  to  jjraise  Luscinda,  it  gave 
me  uneasiness  to  hear  these  praises  from  his  mouth,  and  I  began  to 
fear,  and  with  reason  to  feel  distrust  of  him,  for  there  was  no  moment 
when  he  was  not  I'eady'to  talk  of  I^uscinda,  and  he  would  start  the 
subject  himself  even  though  he  dragged  it  in  unseasonably,  a  cir- 
cumstance that  aroused  in  me  a  certain  amount  of  jealousy  ;  not  that 
I  feared  any  change  in  the  constancy  or  faith  of  Luscinda ;  but  still 
my  fate  led  me  to  forebode  what  she  assured  me  against.  Don 
Fernando  contrived  always  to  read  the  letters  I  sent  to  Luscinda 
and  her  answers  to  me,  under  the  pretence  that  he  enjoyed  the  wit 
and  sense  of  both.  It  so  happened,  then,  that  Luscinda  having 
begged  of  me  a  book  of  chivalry  to  read,  one  that  she  was  very  fond 
of,  "  Amadis  of  Gaul  "  — 

Don  Quixote  no  sooner  heard  a  book  of  chivalry  mentioned, 
than  he  said,  "  Had  your  worship  tokl  me  at  the  beginning  of 
your  story  that  the  Lady  Luscinda  was  fond  of  books  of  chiv- 
alry, no  other  laudation  would  have  been  requisite  to  impress 
upon  me  the  superiority  of  her  understanding,  for  it  could  not 
have  ■  been  of  the  excellence  you  describe  had  a  taste  for  such 
delightful  reading  been  wanting ;  so,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
you  need  waste  no  more  words  in  describing  her  beaixty, 
worth,  and  intelligence :  for,  on  merely  hearing  what  her  taste 
was,  I  declare  her  to  be  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  intel- 
ligent woman  in  the  world ;  and  I  wish  your  worship  had, 
along  with  Amadis  of  Gaul,  sent  her  the  worthy  Don  Rugel  of 
Greece,  for  I  know  the  Lady  Luscinda  would  greatly  relish 
Daraida  and  Garaya,  and  the  shrewd  sayings  of  the  shepherd 


186  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Darinel,  and  the  admirable  verses  of  his  bucolics,  sung  and 
delivered  by  him  with  such  sprightliness,  wit,  and  ease  ;  but  a 
time  may  come  when  this  omission  can  be  remedied,  and  to 
rectify  it  nothing  more  is  needed  than  for  your  worship  to  be 
so  good  as  to  come  Avith  me  to  my  village,  for  there  I  can  give 
you  more  than  three  hundred  books  which  are '  the  delight  of 
my  sold  and  the  entertainment  of  my  life;  — though  it  occurs 
to  me  that  I  have  not  got  one  of  them  now,  thanks  to  the  spite 
of  wicked  and  envious  enchanters  ;  —  but  pardon  me  for  having 
broken  the  promise  Ave  made  not  to  interrupt  your  discourse ; 
for  when  I  hear  chivalry  or  knights-errant  mentioned,  I  can 
no  more  help  talking  about  them  than  the  rays  of  the  sun  can 
help  giving  heat,  or  those  of  the  moon  moisture ;  pardon  me, 
therefore,  and  proceed,  for  that  is  more  to  the  purpose  now." 

While  Don  Quixote  was  saying  this,  Cardenio  allowed  his 
head  to  fall  upon  his  breast,  and  seemed  plunged  in  deep 
thought ;  and  though  twice  Don  Quixote  bade  him  go  on  with 
his  story,  he  neither  looked  up  nor  uttered  a  word  in  reply  ; 
but  after  some  time  he  raised  his  head  and  said, ''  I  can  not  get 
rid  of  the  idea,  nor  will  any  one  in  the  world  remove  it,  or 
make  me  think  otherwise,  —  and  he  would  be  a  blockhead  who 
would  hold  or  believe  anything  else  than  that  that  arrant 
knave  Master  Elisabad  made  free  with  Queen  Madasima." 

"  That  is  not  true,  by  all  that 's  good,"  said  Don  Quixote  in 
high  wrath,  turning  upon  him  angrily,  as  his  Avay  was  ;  ■'  and 
it  is  a  very  great  slander,  or  rather  villany.  Queen  Madasima 
was  a  very  illustrious  lady,  and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
so  exalted  a  princess  would  have  made  free  with  a  quack  ;  and 
whoever  maintains  the  contrary  lies  like  a  great  scoundrel, 
and  I  will  give  him  to  know  it,  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  armed 
or  unarmed,  by  night  or  by  day,  or  as  he  likes  best." 

Cardenio  was  looking  at  him  steadily,  and  his  mad  fit  hav- 
ing now  come  upon  him,  he  had  no  disposition  to  go  on  with 
his  story,  nor  would  Don  Quixote  have  listened  to  it,  so  much 
had  what  he  had  heard  about  Madasima  disgusted  him. 
Strange  to  say,  he  stood  up  for  her  as  if  she  were  in  earnest 
his  veritable  born  lady ;  to  such  a  pass  had  his  unholy  books 
brought  him.  Cardenio,  then,  -being,  as  I  said,  now  mad, 
when  he  heard  himself  given  the  lie,  and  called  a  scoundrel 
and  other  insulting  names,  not  relishing  the  jest,  snatched  up 
a  stone  that  he  found  near  him,  and  with  it  delivered  such  a 
blow  on  Don  Quixote's  breast  that  he  laid  him  on  his  back. 


THE   RAGGED    KNIGHT.      Vol.  I.      Page  186. 


CHAPTER    XXIV.  "^  187 

Sancho  Panza,  seeing  liis  master  treated  in  this  fasliion, 
attacked  the  madman  with  his  closed  fist ;  but  the  Eagged 
One  received  him  in  such  a  way  that  with  a  blow  of  his  fist  he 
stretched  him  at  his  feet,  and  tlien  mounting  upon  liim 
crushed  his  ribs  to  his  own  satisfaction  ;  the  goatherd,  who 
came  to  the  rescue,  shared  the  same  fate  ;  and  having  beaten 
and  pummelled  them  all  he  left  them  and  quietly  withdrew  to 
his  hiding-place  on  the  mountain.  Sancho  rose,  and  with  the 
rage  he  felt  at  finding  himself  so  belabored  without  deserving 
it,  ran  to  take  vengeance  on  the  goatherd,  accusing  him  of  not 
sfivinsr  them  warning  that  this  man  was  at  times  taken  with  a 
mad  fit,  for  if  they  had  known  it  they  would  have  been  on 
their  guard  to  protect  themselves.  The  goatherd  replied  that 
he  had  said  so,  and  that  if  he  had  not  heard  him,  that  it  was 
no  fault  of  his.  Sancho  retorted,  and  the  goatherd  rejoiiied, 
and  the  altercation  ended  in  seizing  each  other  by  the  beard, 
and  exchanging  such  fisticuffs  that  if  Don  Quixote  had  not 
made  peace  between  them,  they  would  have  knocked  one 
another  to  pieces.  "  Leave  me  alone,  Sir  Knight  of  the  Rue- 
ful Countenance,"  said  Sancho,  grappling  with  the  goatherd, 
"  for  of  this  fellow,  who  is  a  clown  like  myself,  and  no  dubbed 
knight,  I  can  safely  take  satisfaction  for  the  affront  he  has 
offered  me,  fiarhting  with  him  hand  to  hand  like  an  honest 
man." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  but  I  know  that  he  is 
not  to  blame  for  what  has  happened." 

With  this  he  pacified  them,  and  again  asked  the  goatherd  if 
it  would  be  possible  to  find  Cardenio,  as  he  felt  the  greatest 
anxiety  to  know  the  end  of  his  story.  The  goatherd  told  him, 
as  he  had  told  him  before,  that  there  was  no  knowing  of  a 
certainty  where  his  lair  was ;  but  that  if  he  wandered  about 
much  in  that  neighborhood  he  could  not  fail  to  fall  in  with  him 
either  in  or  out  of  his  senses. 


188  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER     XXV. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  STRANCxE  THINGS  THAT  HAPPENED 
TO  THE  STOUT  KNIGHT  OF  LA  MANCHA  IN  THE  SIERRA 
MORENA,  AND  OF  HIS  IMITATION  OF  THE  PENANCE  OF 
BELTENEBROS. 

Don  Quixote  took  leave  of  the  goatherd,  and  once  more 
mounting  Rocinante  bade  Sancho  follow  him,  which  he,  having 
no  ass,  did  very  discontentedly.  They  proceeded  slowly,  mak- 
ing their  way  into  the  most  rugged  part  of  the  mountain,  San- 
cho all  the  while  dying  to  have  a  talk  with  his  master,  and 
longing  for  him  to  begin,  so  that  there  should  be  no  breach  of 
the  injunction  laid  upon  him  ;  but,  iniable  to  keep  silence  so 
long,  he  said  to  him,  "  Senor  Don  Quixote,  give  me  your  wor- 
ship's blessing  and  dismissal,  for  I  'd  like  to  go  home  at  once 
to  my  wife  and  children,  with  whom  I  can  at  any  rate  talk  and 
converse  as  much  as  I  like  ;  for  to  want  me  to  go  througli  these 
solitudes  day  and  night  and  not  speak  to  you  when  I  have  a 
mind,  is  burying  me  alive.  If  luck  would  have  it  that  animals 
spoke  as  they  did  in  the  days  of  Gi;isopete,^  it  would  not  be  so 
bad,  because  I  could  talk  to  Rocinante  about  whatever  came 
into  my  head,  and  so  put  up  with  my  ill-fortune ;  but  it  is  a 
hard  case,  and  not  to  be  borne  with  patience,  to  go  seeking  ad- 
ventures all  one's  life,  and  get  nothing  but  kicks  and  blanket- 
ings, brickbats  and  punches,  and  with  all  this,  to  have  to  sew 
up  one's  mouth  without  daring  to  say  Avhat  is  in  one's  heart, 
just  as  if  one  were  dumb." 

'<  I  understand  thee,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote  ;  "  thou 
art  dying  to  have  the  interdict  I  placed  upon  thy  tongue  re- 
moved ;  consider  it  removed,  and  say  what  thou  wilt,  on  condi- 
tion that  the  removal  is  not  to  last  longer  than  while  we  are 
wandering  in  these  mountains." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  Sancho ;  "  let  me  speak  now,  for  God  knows 
what  will  happen  by-and-by ;  and  to  take  advantage  of  the 
permit  at  once,  I  ask,  what  made  your  worship  stand  up  so  for 
that  Queen  Majimasa,  or  whatever  her  name  is,  or  what  did  it 
matter  whether  that  abbot  -  was  a  friend  of  hers  or  not  ?  for  if 

'  i.e.  ^sop. 

*  Sancho  in  his  aptitude  for  blunders  takes  "  Elisahad"  to  be  the  name 
of  some  abad  or  abl)ot.  There  are  tliree  Madasimas  mentioned  in  the 
Amadisi  but  not  one  of  them  is  a  tiueen,  nor  has  Master  Elisabad  any- 


C  it  AFTER    XXV.  l89 

your  worship  had  let  that  pass  —  and  you  were  not  a  judge  in 
the  matter  —  it  is  my  belief  the  niaduian  would  have  gone  on 
with  his  story,  and  the  blow  of  the  stone,  and  the  kicks,  and  more 
than  half  a  dozen  cuffs  would  have  been  escaped." 

"  In  faith,  Sancho,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  '<  if  thou  knew- 
est  as  I  do  what  an  honorable  and  illustrious  lady  Queen  Ma- 
dasima  was,  I  know  thou  wouldst  say  I  had  great  patience  that 
I  did  not  break  in  pieces  the  mouth  that  uttered  such  blas- 
phemies, for  a  very  great  blasphemy  it  is  to  say  or  imagine  that 
a  queen  has  made  free  with  a  surgeon.  The  truth  of  the  story 
is  that  that  Master  Elisabad  whom  the  madman  mentioned  was 
a  man  of  great  prudence  and  sound  jiulgment,  and  served  as 
governor  and  physician  to  the  queen,  but  to  suppose  that  she 
was  his  mistress  is  nonsense  deserving  very  severe  punish- 
ment ;  and  as  a  proof  that  Cardenio  did  not  know  Avhat  he  was 
saying,  remember  when  he  said  it  he  was  out  of  his  wits." 

"  That  is  what  I  say,"  said  Sancho ;  "  there  was  no  occasion 
for  minding  the  words  of  a  madman ;  for  if  good  luck  had  not 
helped  your  worship,  and  he  had  sent  that  stone  at  your  head 
instead  of  at  your  breast,  a  fine  way  we  should  have  been  in 
for  standing  up  for  my  lady  yondfer,  God  confound  her  !  And 
then,  would  not  Cardenio  have  gone  free  as  a  madman  ?  " 

"Against  men  in  their  senses  or  against  madmen,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  every  knight-errant  is  bound  to  stand  up  for  the 
honor  of  women,  whoever  they  may  be,  much  more  for  queens 
of  such  high  degree  and  dignity  as  Queen  Madasima,  for  whom 
I  have  a  particular  regard  on  account  of  her  amiable  qualities  ; 
for,  besides  being  extremely  beautiful,  she  was  very  wise,  and 
very  patient  under  her  misfortunes,  of  which  she  had  many  ; 
and  the  counsel  and  society  of  the  Master  Elisabad  were  a 
great  help  and  support  to  her  in  enduring  her  aftlictions  with 
wisdom  and  resignation  ;  hence  the  ignorant  and  ill-disposed 
vulgar  took  occasion  to  say  and  think  that  she  was  his  mis- 
tress ;  and  they  lie,  I  say  it  once  more,  and  will  lie  two  hun- 
dred times  more,  all  who  think  and  say  so." 

"  I  neither  say  nor  think  so,"  said  Sancho ;  "  let  them  look 
to  it ;  with  their  bread  let  them  eat  it ;  ^  they  have  rendered 

thing  to  do  with  any  of  them.  He  was  in  the  service  of  the  lady  Gra- 
sinda,  and  hy  lior  orders  attended  Amadis  when  wounded.  Scott,  in  the 
article  on  the  Amadis  in  thg  Edinburgh  Review,  suggests  that  Cervantes 
must  have  meant  Queen  Briolania,  apparently  confounding  her  also  with 
Grasinda. 

'  Prov.  170.  This  is  the  first  of  Sancho's  frequent  volleys  of  random 
proverbs. 


190  DON    QUIXOTE. 

account  to  God  whether  they  misbehaved  or  not ;  I  come  from 
my  vineyard,  I  know  nothing ;  ^  I  am  not  fond  of  prying  into 
other  men's  lives  ;  he  who  buys  and  lies  feels  it  in  his  purse  ;  ^ 
moreover,  naked  was  I  born,  naked  I  find  myself,  I  neither 
lose  nor  gain ;  ^  but  if  they  did,  what  is  that  to  me  ?  many 
think  there  are  flitches  where  there  are  no  hooks  ;  *  but  who 
can  put  gates  to  the  open  plain  ?  ^  moreover  they  said  of 
God  "— 

"  God  bless  me,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  what  a  set  of  absurdi- 
ties thou  art  stringing  together  ?  What  has  what  we  are 
talking  about  got  to  do  with  the  proverbs  thou  art  threading 
one  after  the  other  ?  For  God's  sake  hold  thy  tongue,  Sancho, 
and  henceforward  keep  to  prodding  thy  ass  and  don't  meddle 
in  what  does  not  concern  thee ;  and  understand  with  all  thy 
five  senses  that  everything  I  have  done,  am  doing,  or  shall  do, 
is  well  founded  on  reason  and  in  conformity  with  the  rules  of 
chivalry,  for  I  understand  them  better  than  all  the  knights  in 
the  world  that  profess  them." 

"  Sefior,"  replied  Saucho,  "  is  it  a  good  rule  of  chivalry  that 
we  should  go  astray  through  these  mountains  without  path  or 
road,  looking  for  a  madman  who  when  he  is  found  will  per- 
haps take  a  fancy  to  finish  what  he  began,  not  his  story,  but 
your  worship's  head  and  my  ribs,  and  end  by  breaking  them 
altogether  for  us  ?  " 

"  Peace,  I  say  again,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  let 
me  tell  thee  it  is  not  so  much  the  desire  of  finding  that  mad- 
man that  leads  me  into  these  regions  as  that  which  I  have  of 
performing  among  them  an  achievement  wherewith  I  shall  win 
eternal  name  and  fame  throughout  the  known  world ;  and  it 
shall  be  such  that  I  shall  thereby  set  the  seal  on  all  that  can 
make  a  knight-errant  perfect  and  famous." 

"  And  is  it  very  perilous,  this  achievement  ?  "  asked  Sancho. 

"  No,"  replied  he  of  the  Kuef ul  C.ountenance ;  "  though  it 
]nay  be  in  the  dice  that  we  may  throw  deuce-ace  instead  of 
sixes  ;  but  all  will  depend  on  thy  diligence." 

"  On  my  diligence  !  "  said  Sancho. 

''  Yes,"  said  Don  Quixote,  '•  for  if  thou  dost  return  soon 
from  the  place  where  I  mean  to  send  thee,  my  penance  will  be 
soon   over,  and  my  glory  will   soon  begin.     But  as  it  is  not 

'  Prov.  247.  '  Prov.  55.  ^Prov.  73. 

*  Prov.  22G  :  estacas — -literally,  stakes  or  pegs  on  which  to  hang  them; 
expressive  of  unreasonable  expectations. 

*  Prov.  195. 


CHAPTER    XXV.  191 

right  to  keep  thee  any  hniger  in  suspense,  waiting  to  see  what 
comes  of  my  words,  I  woukl  have  thee  know,  Sancho,  that  the 
famous  Amadis  of  Claul  was  one  of  the  most  perfect  knights- 
errant —  I  am  wrong  to  say  he  was  one;  he  stood  alone,  the 
first,  the -only  one,  the  hn-d  of  all  that  were  in  the  world  in 
his  time.  A  fig  for  Don  Belianis,  and  for  all  who  say  he 
equalled  him  in  any  respect,  for,  my  oath  upon  it,  they  are  de- 
ceiving themselves  !  I  say,  too,  that  when  a  painter  desires 
to  become  famous  in  his  art  he  endeavors  to  copy  the  originals 
of  the  rarest  painters  that  he  knows ;  and  the  same  rule  holds 
good  for  all  the  most  important  crafts  and  callings  that  serve 
to  adorn  a  state ;  thus  will  he  who  would  be  esteemed  prudent 
and  patient  imitate  Ulysses,  in  whose  person  and  labors  Homer 
presents  to  us  a  lively  picture  of  prudence  and  patience  ;  as 
Virgil,  too,  shows  us  in  the  person  of  ^'Eneas  the  virtue  of  a 
pious  son  and  the  sagacity  of  a  brave  and  skilful  captain  ;  not 
representing  or  describing  them  as  they  were,  but  as  they 
ought  to  be,  so  as  to  leave  the  example  of  their  virtues  to  pos- 
terity. In  the  same  way  Amadis  was  the  pole-star,  day-star, 
sun  of  valiant  and  devoted  knights,  whom  all  we  who  fight 
under  the  banner  of  love  and  chivalry  are  bound  to  imitate. 
This,  then,  being  so,  I  consider,  friend  Sancho,  that  the  knight- 
errant  who  shall  imitate  him  most  closely  will  come  nearest  to 
reaching  the  perfection  of  chivalry.  Now  one  of  the  instances 
in  which  this  knight  most  conspicuously  showed  his  prudence, 
worth,  valor,  patience,  fortitude,  and  love,  was  when  he  Avith- 
drew,  rejected  by  the  Lady  Oriana,  to  do  penance  upon  the 
Peila  Pobre,  changing  his  name  into  that  of  Beltenebros,^  a 
name  assuredly  significant  and  appropriate  to  the  life  which 
he  had  voluntarily  adopted.  80,  as  it  is  easier  for  me  to  ind- 
tate  him  in  this  than  in  cleaving  giants  asunder,  cutting  off 
serpents'  heads,  slaying  dragons,  routing  armies,  destroying 
fleets,  and  breaking  enchantments,  and  as  this  place  is  so  well 
suited  for  a  similar  purpose,  I  must  not  allow  the  opportunity 
to  escape  which  now  so  conveniently  offers  me  its  forelock." 

"What  is  it  in  reality,"  said  Sancho,  ''that  yoiir  worship 
means  to  do  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  place  as  this  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  told  thee,"  answered  Don  Quixote,  "  that  I 

'  Beltenehros,  i.e.  "  fair-obscure."  Clemencin  suggests  that  the  Peiia 
Pobre  (so  called  because  those  who  sojourned  tliere  had  to  live  in  extreme 
poverty)  was  Mont  St.  Micliel,  but  Jersey  would  suit  the  description  bet- 
ter, as  it  is  said  to  be  seven  leagues  from  the  coast  of  the  Insula  Firme, 
which  was  clearly  the  mainland  of  Brittany  or  Normandy. 


192  DON    QUIXOTE. 

mean  to  imitate  Amadis  here,  playing  the  victim  of  despair, 
tlie  madman,  the  maniac,  so  as  at  the  same  time  to  imitate 
the  valiant  Roland,  when  at  the  fountain  he  had  evidence 
of  the  fair  Angelica  having  disgraced  herself  with  Medoro  and 
through  grief  thereat  went  mad,  and  plucked  up  trees,  troubled 
the  waters  of  the  clear  springs,  slew  shepherds,  destroyed  flocks, 
burned  down  huts,  levelled  houses,  dragged  mares  after  him, 
and  perpetrated  a  hundred  thousand  other  outrages  worthy  of 
everlasting  renown  and  record  ?  And  though  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  imitating  Roland,  or  Orlando,  or  Rotolando  (for  he  went 
by  all  these  names),  step  by  step  in  all  the  mad  things  he  did, 
said,  and  thought,  I  will  make  a  rough  copy  to  the  best  of  my 
power  of  all  that  seems  to  me  most  essential ;  but  perhaps  I 
shall  content  myself  with  the  simple  imitation  of  Amadis,  who, 
without  giving  way  to  any  mischievous  madness  but  merely  to 
tears  and  sorrow,  gained  as  much  fame  as  the  most  famous." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Sancho,  '•  that  the  knights  who  be- 
haved in  this  way  had  provocation  and  cause  for  those  follies 
and  penances ;  but  what  cause  has  your  worship  for  going  mad  ? 
AVhat  lady  has  rejected  you,  or  what  evidence  have  you  found 
to  prove  that  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  has  been  trifling 
with  Moor  or  Christian  ?  " 

"  There  is  the  point,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  and  that  is  the 
beauty  of  this  business  of  mine  ;  no  thanks  to  a  knight-errant 
for  going  mad  when  he  has  a  cause ;  the  thing  is  to  turn  crazy 
without  any  provocation,  and  to  let  my  lady  know,  if  I  do  this 
in  the  dry,  what  I  woidd  do  in  the  moist ;  ^  moreover  I  have 
abundant  cause  in  the  long  separation  I  have  endured  from  my 
lady  till  death,  Dulcinea  del  Toboso ;  for  as  thou  didst  hear 
that  shepherd  Ambrosio  say  the  other  day,  in  absence  all  ills 
are  felt  and  feared ;  and  so,  friend  Sancho,  waste  no  time  in 
advising  me  against  so  rare,  so  happy,  and  so  unheard-of  an 
imitation  ;  mad  I  am,  and  mad  I  must  be  until  thou  returnest 
with  the  answer  to  a  letter  that  I  mean  to  send  by  thee  to  my 
lady  Dulcinea ;  and  if  it  be  such  as  my  constancy  deserves, 
my  insanity  and  penance  will  come  to  an  end ;  and  if  it  be  to 
the  opposite  effect,  I  shall  become  mad  in  earnest,  and,  being 
so,  I  shall  suffer  no  more ;  thus  in  whatever  way  she  may 
answer  I  shall  escape  from  the  struggle  and  affliction  in  which 
thou  wilt  leave  me,  enjoying  in  my  senses  tlie  boon  thou  bearest 
me,  or  as  a  madman  not  feeling  the  evil  thou  briugest  me. 

•  Probably  an  allusion  to  the  "  green  tree  "  and  the  "  dry." 


L 

CHAPTER    XXV.  193 

But  tell  me,  Sancho,  hast  thou  got  Mambriuo's  helmet  safe ; 
•for  I  saw  thee  take  it  up  from  the  ground  when  that  Avretch 
tried  to  break  it  in  pieces  but  could  not,  by  which  the  fineness 
of  its  temper  may  be  seen  ?  " 

To  which  Sancho  made  answer,  "  By  the  living  God,  Sir 
Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance,  I  cannot  endure  or  bear 
with  patience  some  of  the  things  that  your  worship  says  ;  and 
from  them  I  begin  to  suspect  that  all  you  tell  me  about  chivalry, 
and  winning  kingdoms  and  empires,  and  giving  islands,  and  be- 
stowing other  rewards  and  dignities  after  the  custom  of  knights- 
errant,  must  be  all  made  up  of  wind  and  lies,  and  all  pigments 
or  figments,  or  whatever  we  may  call  them  ;  for  what  would 
any  one  think  that  heard  your  Avorship  calling  a  barber's  basin 
Mambrino's  helmet  without  ever  seeing  the  mistake  all  this 
time,^  but  that  one  who  says  and  maintains  such  things  must 
have  his  brains  addled  ?  T  have  the  basin  in  my  sack  all 
dinted,  and  I  am  taking  it  home  to  have  it  mended,  to  trim  my 
beard  in  it,  if,  by  God's  grace,  I  am  allowed  to  see  my  wife  and 
children  some  day  or  other." 

"  Look  here,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  by  him  thou  didst 
swear  by  just  now  I  swear  thou  hast  the  most  limited  under- 
standing that  any  squire  in  the  world  has  or  ever  had.  Is  it 
possible  that  all  this  time  thou  hast  been  going  about  with  me 
thou  hast  never  found  out  that  all  things  belonging  to  knights- 
errant  seem  to  be  illusions  and  nonsense  and  ravings,  and  to  go 
always  by  contraries  ?  And  not  because  it  really  is  so,  but  be- 
cause there  is  always  a  swarm  of  enchanters  in  attendance  upon 
us  that  change  and  alter  everything  with  us,  and  turn  things 
as  they  please,  and  according  as  they  are  disposed  to  aid  or  de- 
stroy us  ;  thus  what  seems  to  thee  a  barber's  basin  seems  to  me 
Mambrino's  helmet,  and  to  another  it  will  seem  something  else  ; 
and  rare  foresight  it  was  in  the  sage  who  is  on  my  side  to  make 
what  is  really  and  truly  Mambrino's  helmet  seem  a  basin  to 
everybody,  for,  being  held  in  such  estimation  as  it  is,  all  the 
world  would  pursue  me  to  rob  me  of  it ;  but  when  they  see  it 
is  only  a  barber's  basin  they  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  obtain 
it ;  as  was  plainly  shown  by  him  who  tried  to  break  it,  and  left 

'  In  tlie  original  it  is  "  for  more  than  four  days,"  to  which  some  com- 
mentators, Hartzenbusch  among  tlicm,  object,  as  not  more  than  one  day 
had  passed  since  tlie  encounter  with  the  barber.  But  "  more  than  four  " 
is  a  very  common  phrase  to  express  indefinitely  a  considerable  number, 
and  it  is  more  probably  used  here  vaguely  by  Sancho  in  the  sense  in  which 
I  have  rendered  it. 

Vol.  I.—  13 


194  DON    QJUXOTE. 

it  on  the  ground  without  taking  it,  for,  by  my  faith,  had  he 
known  it  he  woukl  never  have  left  it  behind.  Keep  it  safe,  my. 
friend,  for  just  now  I  have  no  need  of  it ;  indeed,  I  shall  have 
to  take  oft'  all  this  armor  and  remain  as  naked  as  I  was  born, 
if  I  have  a  mind  to  follow  Roland  rather  than  Amadis  in  my 
penance."  ^ 

Thus  talking  they  reached  the  foot  of  a  high  mountain  which 
stood  like  an  isolated  peak  among  the  others  that  surrounded 
it.  Past  its  base  there  flowed  a  gentle  brook,  all  around  it 
spread  a  meadow  so  green  and  luxuriant  that  it  was  a  delight 
to  the  eyes  to  look  upon  it,  and  forest  trees  in  abixndance,  and 
shrubs  and  flowers,  added  to  the  charms  of  the  spot.  Upon 
this  place  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  fixed  his 
choice  for  the  performance  of  his  penance,  and  as  he  beheld 
it  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice  as  though  he  were  out  of  his 
senses,  "  This  is  the  place,  oh,  ye  heavens,  that  I  select  and 
choose  for  bewailing  the  misfortune  in  which  ye  yourselves 
have  plunged  me  :  this  is  the  spot  where  the  overflowings  of 
mine  eyes  shall  swell  the  waters  of  yon  little  brook,  and  my 
deep  and  endless  sighs  shall  stir  unceasingly  the  leaves  of 
these  mountain  trees,  in  testimony  and  token  of  the  pain  my 
persecuted  heart  is  suffering.  Oh,  ye  rural  deities,  whoever 
ye  be  that  haunt  this  lone  spot,  give  ear  to  the  complaint  of  a 
wretched  lover  whom  long  absence  and  brooding  jealousy  have 
driven  to  bewail  his  fate  among  these  wilds  and  complain  of 
the  hard  heart  of  that  fair  and  ungratefid  one,  the  end  and 
limit  of  all  human  beauty  !  Oh,  ye  wood  nymphs  and  dryads, 
that  dwell  in  the  thickets  of  the  forest,  so  may  the  nimble 
wanton  satyrs  by  whom  ye  are  vainly  wooed  never  disturb 
your  sweet  re}»ose,  help  me  to  lament  my  hard  fate  or  at  least 
weary  not  at  listening  to  it !  Oh,  Dulciuea  del  Toboso,  day  of 
my  night,  glory  of  my  pain,  guide  of  my  path,  star  of  my 
fortune,  so  may  Heaven  grant  thee  in  full  all  thou  seekest  of 
it,  bethink  tliee  of  the  place  and  condition  to  which  absence 
from  thee  has  l)rought  me,  and  make  that  return  in  kindness 
that  is  due  to  my  fidelity !  Oh,  lonely  trees,  that  from  this 
day  forward  shall  bear  me  company  in  my  solitude,  give  me 
some  sign  by  the  gentle  movement  of  your  boughs  that  my 
presence  is  \\ot  distasteful  to  you !  Oh,  thou,  my  squire, 
pleasant  companion  in  my  prosperous  and  adverse  fortunes, 

'  For  the  character  of  Orlando's  insanity,  see  the  Orlando  Furioso, 
canto  sxiii.  st.  130  et  seq. 


CHAPTER    XXV.  195 

fix  well  in  thy  memoiy  what  thou  shalt  see  me  do  here,  so 
that  thou  mayest  relate  and  report  it  to  the  sole  cause  of  all," 
and  so  saying  he  dismounted  from  Kocinante,  and  in  an  instant 
relieved  him  of  saddle  and  bridle,  and  giving  him  a  slap  on 
the  croui?,  said,  ''  He  gives  thee  freedom  who  is  bereft  of  it 
himself,  oh  steed  as  excellent  in  deed  as  thou  art  unfortunate 
in  thy  lot;  begone  where  thou  wilt,  for  thou  bearest  written 
on  thy  forehead  that  neither  Astolfo's  hippogriff,  nor  the 
famed  Frontino  that  cost  Bradamante  so  dear,  could  equal 
thee  in  speed."  ^ 

Seeing  this  Sancho  said,  "  Good  luck  to  him  who  has  saved 
us  the  trouble  of  stripping  the  pack-saddle  off  Dapple  !  By 
my  faith  he  would  not  have  gone  without  a  slap  on  the  croup 
and  something  said  in  his  praise ;  though  if  he  were  here  I 
would  not  let  any  one  strip  him,  for  there  would  be  no  occa- 
sion, as  he  had  nothing  of  the  lover  or  victim  of  desjjair  about 
him,  inasmuch  as  his  master,  which  I  was  while  it  was  God's 
pleasure,  was  nothing  of  the  soi*t ;  and  indeed,  »Sir  Knight  of 
the  Rueful  Countenance,  if  my  departure  and  yoiu-  worrdiip's 
madness  are  to  come  off  in  earnest,  it  will  be  as  well  to  saddle 
Rocinante  again  in  order  that  he  may  supply  the  want  of 
Dapple,  because  it  will  save  me  time  in  going  and  returning ; 
for  if  I  go  on  foot  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  get  there  or 
when  I  shall  get  back,  as  I  am,  in  truth,  a  bad  walker." 

"  I  declare,  Sancho,"  returned  Don  Quixote,  "  it  shall  be  as 
thou  wilt,  for  thy  plan  does  not  seem  to  me  a  bad  one,  and 
three  days  hence  thou  wilt  depart,  for  I  wish  thee  to  observe 
in  the  mean  time  what  I  do  and  say  for  her  sake,  that  thou 
mayest  be  able  to  tell  it." 

"  But  what  more  have  I  to  see  besides  what  I  have  seen  ?  " 
said  Sancho. 

"  Much  thou  knowest  about  it !  "  said  Don  Quixote.  '*  I  have 
now  got  to  tear  up  my  garments,  to  scatter  about  my  armor, 
knock  my  head  against  these  rocks,  and  more  of  the  same  sort 
of  thing,  which  thou  must  witness." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,"  said  Sancho,  "  be  careful,  your  wor- 
ship, how  you  give  yourself  those  knocks  on  the  head,  for  you 
may  come  across  such  a  rock,  and  in  such  a  way,  that  the  very 
first  may  put  an  end  to  the  whole  contrivance  of  this  penance; 

'  The  hippogriff  was  the  \\inged  horse  on  which  Astolf o  went  in  quest 
of  information  al)out  Orlando.  Frontino  was  the  name  of  the  destroyer 
of  Kuggiero,  Bradamante's  lover. 


196  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  I  should  think,  if  indeed  knocks  on  the  head  seem  necessary 
to  you,  and  this  business  can  not  be  done  without  them,  you 
might  be  content  —  as  the  whole  thing  is  feigned,  and  counter- 
feit, and  in  joke  —  you  might  be  content,  I  say,  with  giving 
them  to  yourself  in  the  water,  or  against  something  soft,  like 
cotton  ;  and  leave  it  all  to  me ;  for  I  '11  tell  my  lady  that  your 
worship  knocked  your  head  against  a  point  of  rock  harder  than 
a  diamond." 

"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  good  intentions,  friend  Sancho," 
answered  Don  Quixote,  '^  but  I  would  have  thee  know  that  all 
these  things  I  am  doing  are  not  in  joke,  but  very  much  in  ear- 
nest, for  anything  else  would  be  a  transgression  of  the  ordi- 
nances of  chivalry,  which  forbid  us  to  tell  any  lie  whatever 
under  the  penalties  due  to  apostasy  ;  and  to  do  one  thing  instead 
of  another  is  just  the  same  as  lying ;  so  iny  knocks  on  the  head 
must  l)e  real,  solid,  and  valid,  without  anything  sophisticated 
or  fanciful  about  them,  and  it  will  be  needful  to  leave  me  some 
lint  to  dress  my  wounds,  since  fortune  has  compelled  us  to  do 
without  the  balsam  we  lost." 

"  It  was  worse  losing  the  ass,"  replied  Sancho,  "  for  with  him 
lint  and  all  were  lost ;  but  I  beg  of  your  worship  not  to  remind 
me  again  of  that  accursed  liquor,  for  my  soul,  not  to  say  my 
stomach,  turns  at  hearing  the  very  name  of  it ;  and  I  beg  of  you, 
too,  to  reckon  as  past  the  three  clays  you  alloAved  me  for  seeing 
the  mad  things  you  do,  for  I  take  them  as  seen  already  and  pro- 
nounced upon,  and  I  will  tell  wonderful  stories  to  my  lady ;  so 
Avrite  the  letter  and  send  me  off  at  once,  for  I  long  to  return 
and  take  your  worship  out  of  this  purgatory  where  I  am  leaving 
you." 

"  Purgatory  dost  thou  call  it,  Sancho  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote, 
"rather  call  it  hell,  or  even  worse  if  there  be  anything  worse." 

"  For  one  who  is  in  hell,"  said  Sancho,  '•  nulla  est  retentio,  as 
I  have  heard  say." 

"  I  do  not  understand  what  retentio  means,"  said  Don  Qui- 
xote. 

"  Retentio ^^  answered  Sancho,  "  means  that  whoever  is  in  hell 
never  comes  nor  can  come  out  of  it,  Avhicli  will  be  the  opposite 
case  with  your  worship  or  my  legs  will  be  idle,  that  is  if  I  have 
spurs  to  enliven  Eocinante :  let  me  once  get  to  El  Toboso  and 
into  the  presence  of  my  lady  Dulcinea,  and  I  will  tell  her  such 
things  of  the  follies  and  madnesses  (for  it  is  all  one)  that  your 
worship  has  done  and  is  still  doing,  that  I  will  manage  to  make 


CHAPTER    XXV.  '  197 

hei-  softer  than  a  glove  thongli  I  find  her  hariler  than  a  coi'k 
tree ;  and  with  her  sweet  and  honeyed  answer  I  will  ccnne  back 
through  the  air  like  a  witch,  and  take  your  worship  out  of  this 
l)urgatory  that  seems  to  be  hell  but  is  not,  as  there  is  hope  of 
getting  out  of  it ;  which,  as  I  have  said,  those  in  hell  have  not, 
and  I  believe  your  worship  will  not  say  anything  to  the  contrary." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  he  of  the  Rueful  Countenance,  "  but  how 
shall  v.e  manage  to  write  the  letter  ?  " 

"  And  the  ass-colt  order  too,"  added  Sancho. 

'<  All  shall  be  included,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  "  and  as  there  is 
no  paper,  it  would  be  well  done  to  write  it  on  the  leaves  of 
trees,  as  the  ancients  did,  or  on  tablets  of  wax ;  though  that 
would  be  as  hard  to  find  just  now  as  paper.  But  it  has  just 
occurred  to  me  how  it  may  be  conveniently  and  even  more  tlian 
conveniently  written,  and  that  is  in  the  note-book  that  l)elonged 
to  Cardenio,  and  thou  wilt  take  care  to  have  it  copied  on  paper, 
in  a  good  hand,  at  the  first  village  thou  comest  to  where  there 
is  a  schoolmaster,  or  if  not,  any  sacristan  will  copy  it ;  but  see 
thou  give  it  not  to  any  notary  to  copy,  for  they  write  a  law  hand 
that  Satan  could  not  make  out." 

"  But  what  is  to  be  done  aliout  the  signature  ?  "  said  Sancho. 

"  The  letters  of  Amadis  were  never  signed,"  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  said  Sancho,  "  but  the  order  must 
needs  be  signed,  and  if  it  is  copied  they  will  say  the  signature 
is  false,  and  I  shall  be  left  without  ass-colts." 

"  The  order  shall  go  signed  in  the  same  book,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  and  on  seeing  it  my  niece  will  make  no  difficulty 
about  obeying  it ;  as  to  the  love-letter  thou  canst  put  by  way  of 
signatvire,  ^  Yours  till  death,  tlie  Knujlit  nf  the  Rueful  C<mn- 
tenance.''  And  it  will  be  no  great  matter  if  it  is  in  some  other 
person's  hand,  for  as  well  as  I  recollect  Dulcinea  can  neither 
read  nor  write,  nor  in  the  whole  course  of  her  life  has  she  seen 
handwriting  or  letter  of  mine,  for  my  love  and  hers  have  been 
always  platonic,  not  going  beyond  a  modest  look,  and  even  that 
so  seldom  that  I  can  safely  swear  I  have  not  seen  her  four  times 
in  all  these  twelve  years  I  have  been  loving  her  more  than  the 
light  of  these  eyes  that  the  earth  will  one  day  devour ;  and  per- 
haps even  of  those  four  times  she  has  not  once  perceived  that 
I  was  looking  at  her  :  such  is  the  retirement  and  seclusion  in 
which  her  father  Lorenzo  Corchuelo  and  her  mother  Aldonza 
Nogales  have  brought  her  up." 

"  So,  so  !  "  said  Sancho ;  "  Lorenzo  Corchuelo's  daughter  is 


198  DON    QUIXOTE. 

tlie    lady    Diilcinea    del     Toboso,    otlierAvise    calletl    Aldonza 
Lorenzo  ?  " 

"  She  it  is,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  she  it  is  that  is  worthy 
to  be  lady  of  the  universe." 

"  I  know  her  well,"  said  Sancho,  '•  and  let  me  tell  yon  she 
can  fling  a  crowbar  as  well  as  the  lustiest  lad  in  all  the  town. 
Giver  of  all  good  !  but  she  is  a  brave  lass,  and  a  right  and  stout 
one,  and  fit  to  be  helpmate  to  any  knight-errant  that  is  or  is  to 
be,  who  may  make  her  his  lady :  the  whoreson  wench,  what 
pith  she  has  and  what  a  voice  !  I  can  tell  you  one  day  she 
posted  herself  on  the  top  of  the  belfry  of  the  village  to  call 
some  laborers  of  theirs  that  were  in  a  ploughed  field  of  her 
father's,  and  though  they  were  better  than  half  a  league  off 
they  heard  her  as  well  as  if  they  were  at  the  foot  of  the  tower ; 
and  the  best  of  her  is  that  she  is  not  a  bit  prudish,  for  she  has 
plenty  of  affability,  and  jokes  with  everybody,  and  has  a  grin 
and  a  jest  for  everything.  So,  Sir  Knight  of  the  Ifueful 
Countenance,  I  say  you  not  only  may  and  ought  to  do  mad 
freaks  for  her  sake,  but  you  have  a  good  right  to  give  way  to 
des})air  and  hang  j^ourself ;  and  no  one  wlio  knows  of  it  but 
will  say  you  did  well,  though  the  devil  should  take  you  ;  and  I 
wish  I  Avere  on  my  road  already,  simply  to  see  her,  for  it  is 
many  a  day  since  I  saw  her,  and  she  must  be  altered  by  this 
time,  for  going  about  the  fields  always,  and  the  sun  and  the 
air  spoil  women's  looks  greatly.  But  I  must  own  the  truth  to 
you.r  worship,  Senor  Don  Quixote ;  until  now  I  have  been  under 
a  great  mistake,  for  I  believed  truly  and  honestly  that  the  lady 
Dulcinea  must  be  some  princess  your  worship  was  in  love  with, 
or  some  person  great  enough  to  deserve  the  rich  presents  you 
have  sent  her,  such  as  the  Biscayan  and  the  galley  slaves,  and 
many  more  no  doubt,  for  your  worship  must  have  won  many 
victories  in  the  time  when  I  was  not  yet  your  squire.  But  all 
things  considered,  what  good  can  it  do  the  lady  Aldonza  Lorenzo 
(T  mean  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso)  to  have  the  vanquished 
your  worship  sends  or  will  send  coming  to  her  and  going  down 
on  their  knees  before  her".*'  Because  maybe  when  they  came 
she  'd  be  hackling  flax  or  threshing  on  the  threshing  floor,^  and 
they  'd  be  ashamed  to  see  her,  and  she  'd  laugh,  or  resent  the 
})resent." 

'  Corn  in  Spain  is  not  threshed,  as  we  understand  tlie  word,  bnt  sep- 
arated from  the  ear  by  means  of  the  trilla^  a  sort  of  toothless  harrow,  which 
is  dragged  over  it  as  it  lies  on  the  era  or  threshing  floor. 


CHAPTER    XXV.  199 

"  I  have  before  now  told  thee  many  times,  Sancho,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  "  that  thou  art  a  mighty  great  cliatterer,  and  tliat  with 
a  bhrnt  wit  thou  art  always  striving  at  sharpness ;  but  to  show 
thee  what  a  fool  thou  art  and  how  rational  I  am,  I  would  have 
thee  listen  to  a  short  story.  Thou  must  know  that  a  certain 
widow,  fair,  young,  independent,  and  rich,  and  above  all  free 
and  easy,  fell  in  love  with  a  sturdy  strapping  young  lay- 
brother  ;  his  superior  came  to  know  of  it,  and  one  day  said  to 
the  worthy  widow  by  way  of  brotherly  remonstrance,  '  I  am 
surprised,  seiiora,  and  not  without  good  reason,  that  a  woman 
of  such  high  standing,  so  fair,  and  so  rich  as  you  are,  should 
have  fallen  in  love  Avith  such  a  mean,  low,  stupid  fellow  as  So- 
and-so,  when  in  this  house  there  are  so  many  masters,  graduates 
and  divinity  students  from  among  whom  you  might  choose  as 
if  they  were  a  lot  of  pears,  saying.  This  one  I  '11  take,  that  I 
won't  take  ;  '  but  she  replied  to  him  with  great  sprightliness 
and  candor,  '  i\[y  dear  sir,  you  are  very  much  mistaken,  and 
your  ideas  are  very  old-fashioned,  if  you  think  that  I  have 
made  a  bad  choice  in  So-and-so,  fool  as  he  seems ;  because  for 
all  I  Avant  Avith  him  he  knoAvs  as  niuch  and  more  philosophy 
than  Aristotle.'  In  the  same  way,  Sancho,  for  all  I  Avant  Avith 
Dulcinea  del  Toboso  she  is  just  as  good  as  the  inost  exalted 
princess  on  earth.  It  is  not  to  be  su])posedthat  all  those  poets 
Avho  sang  the  praises  of  ladies  under  the  fancy  names  they  give 
them,  had  any  such  mistresses.  Thinkest  thou  that  the 
Amaryllises,  the  Phillises,  the  Sylvias,  the  Dianas,  the  Gala- 
teas,^  the  Filidas,  and  all  the  rest  of  them,  that  the  books,  the 
ballads,  the  barbers'  shops,  the  theatres  are  full  of,  Avere  really 
and  truly  ladies  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  mistresses  of  those  that 
glorify  and  have  glorified  them  ?  Nothing  of  the  kind  ;  they 
only  invent  them  for  the  most  part  to  furnish  a  subject  for 
their  verses,  and  that  they  may  pass  for  lovers,  or  for  men  Avho 
have  some  pretensions  to  be  so;  and  so  it  is  enough  for  me  to 
think  and  believe  that  the  good  Aldonza  Lorenzo  is  fair  and 
virtuous ;  and  as  to  her  pedigree  it  is  very  little  matter,  for  no 
one  Avill  examine  into  it  for  the  purpose  of  conferring  any  order 

'  The  introduction  here  of  the  name  of  his  own  heroine,  Gahitea,  may 
be  taken  for  Avhat  it  is  worth  as  a  contradiction  of  the  story  that  by 
Galatea  he  meant  tlie  mother  of  his  daughter  Isabel.  An  ingenious  specu- 
lator might  suggest  tliat  his  object  was  to  soothe  the  susceptil)ilities  of  liis 
wife  Dofia  Catalina,  but  it  is  clear  tliat  there  were  no  heartburnings  on 
that  score  in  the  household  of  CerA^antes. 


200  DON    QUIXOTE. 

upon  her/  and  I,  for  my  part,  reckon  her  the  most  exalted 
princess  in  the  world.  For  thou  shouldst  know,  Sancho,  if  thou 
dost  not  know,  that  two  things  alone  beyond  all  others  are  in- 
centives to  love,  and  these  are  great  beauty  and  a  good  name, 
and  these  two  things  are  to  be  fomid  in  Dulcinea  in  the  highest 
degree,  for  in  beauty  no  one  equals  her  and  in  good  name  few 
approach  her ;  and  to  put  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell,  I  per- 
suade myself  that  all  I  say  is  as  I  say,  neither  more  nor  less, 
and  I  picture  her  in  my  imagination  as  I  would  have  her  to  be, 
as  well  in  beauty  as  in  condition  ;  Helen  approaches  her  not 
nor  does  Lucretia  come  up  to  her,  nor  any  other  of  the  famous 
women  of  times  past,  Greek,  Barbarian,  or  Latin  ;  and  let  each 
say  what  he  will,  for  if  in  this  I  am  taken  to  task  by  the  igno- 
rant, I  shall  not  be  censured  by  the  critical." 

''I  say  that  your  worship  is  entirely  right,"  said  Sancho, 
"  and  that  I  am  an  ass.  But  I  know  not  how  the  name  of  ass 
came  into  my  mouth,  for  a  rope  is  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
house  of  him  who  has  been  hanged ;  "^  but  now  for  the  letter, 
and  then,  God  be  with  you,  I  am  off." 

Don  Quixote  took  out  the  note-book,  and,  retiring  to  one  side, 
very  deliberately  began  to  write  the  letter,  and  when  he  had 
finished  it  he  called  to  Sancho,  saying  he  wished  to  read  it  to 
him,  so  that  he  might  commit  it  to  memory,  in  case  of  losing  it 
on  the  road ;  for  with  evil  fortune  like  his  anything  might  be 
apprehended.  To  which  Sancho  replied,  "  Write  it  two  or  three 
times  tnere  in  the  book  and  give  it  to  me,  and  I  will  carry  it 
very  carefully,  because  to  expect  me  to  keep  it  in  my  memory 
is  all  nonsense,  for  I  have  such  a  bad  one  that  I  often  forget 
my  owii  name ;  but  for  all  that  repeat  it  to  me,  as  I  shall  like 
to  hear  it,  for  surely  it  will  run  as  if  it  was  in  print." 

'•'  Listen,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  this  is  what  it  says : 

"  Don  Quixote's  Letter  to  Dulcinea  del  Toboso. 

"  Sovereign  axd  Exalted  Lady,  —  The  pierced  by  the  point  of 
absence,  the  wounded  to  the  heart's  core,  sends  thee,  sweetest  Dul- 
cinea del  Toboso,  the  health  that  he  himself  enjoys  not.  If  thy 
beauty  despises  me,  if  thy  worth  is  not  for  me,  if  thy  scorn  is  my 
affliction,  though  I  be  sufficiently  long-suffering,  hardly  shall  I  en- 
dure this  anxiety,  which,  besides  being  oppressive,  is  protracted. 
My  good  Squire  Sancho  will  relate  to  thee  in  full,  fair  ingrate,  dear 

'  Proof  of  hidalgiiia  -was  necessary  heiore  some  orck-r.s,  that  of  Santiago 
for  instance,  could  be  conferred. 
2Prov.  219. 


CHAPTER    XXV.  201 

enemj',  tlie  condition  to  whicli  I  am  reduced  on  tliy  account;  if  it  be 
tiiy  pleasui'e  to  give  me  relief,  I  am  thine;  if  not,  do  as  maybe 
pleasing  to  thee ;  for  by  ending  my  life  I  shall  satisfy  thy  cruelty  and 
my  desire. 

"  Thine  till  death, 

"The  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance." 

"  By  the  life  of  my  father,"  said  Sancho,  when  he  heard  the 
letter,  "  it  is  the  loftiest  thing  I  ever  heard.  Body  of  me  !  how 
your  worship  says  everything  as  you  like  in  it !  And  how  well 
you  fit  in  '  The  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance '  into  the 
signature.  I  declare  your  worship  is  indeed  the  very  devil, 
and  there  is  nothing  you  don't  know." 

"  Everytlung  is  needed  for  the  calling  I  follow,"  said  Don 
Quixote. 

''  Now  then,"  said  Sancho,  "  let  your  worship  put  the  order 
for  the  three  ass-colts  on  the  other  side,  and  sign  it  very  plainly, 
that  they  may  recognize  it  at  first  sight." 

''  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Don  Quixote,  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  written  it  he  read  it  to  this  effect : 

"  Mistress  Niece,  —  By  this  first  of  ass-colts  please  pay  to  Sancho 
Panza,  my  squire,  three  of  the  five  I  left  at  home  in  your  charge : 
said  three  ass-colts  to  be  paid  and  delivered  for  the  same  number  re- 
ceived here  in  hand,  which  upon  this  and  upon  his  receipt  shall  be 
duly  paid.  Done  In  the  heart  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  August  of  this  present  year." 

* 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Sancho;  "now  let  your  worship  sign 

it." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  sign  it,"  said  Don  Quixote, ''  but  merely 
to  put  my  flourish,^  which  is  the  same  as  a  signature,  and 
enough  for  three  asses,  or  even  three  hundred." 

"lean  trust  your  worship,"  returned  Sancho;  "let  me  go 
and  saddle  Rocinante,  and  be  ready  to  give  me  your  blessing, 
for  I  mean  to  go  at  once  without  seeing  the  fooleries  your 
worship  is  going  to  do ;  I  '11  say  I  saw  you  do  so  many  that 
she  will  not  want  any  more." 

"  At  any  rate,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  I  should  like  — 
and  there  is  reason  for  it  —  I  should  like  thee,  I  say,  to  see 
me  stripped  to  the  skin  and  performing  a  dozen  or  two  of  in- 
sanities, which  I  can  get  done  in  less  than  half  an  hour ;  for 

'  The  rubrica,  or  fiourisli,  which  is  always  a  part  of  a  Spanish  signa- 
ture. 


202  DON    QUIXOTE. 

having  seen  tliem  with  thine  own  eyes,  thoii  canst  then  safely 
swear  to  the  rest  that  thou  wouklst  add ;  and  I  promise  thee 
thou  wilt  not  tell  of  as  many  as  I  mean  to  perform." 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  master  mine,"  said  Saucho,  "  let  me 
not  see  your  worship  stripped,  for  it  will  sorely  grieve  me,  and 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  keep  from  tears,  and  my  head  aches  so 
with  all  I  shed  last  night  for  Dapple,  that  I  am  not  fit  to  begin 
any  fresh  weeping ;  but  if  it  is  your  worship's  pleasure  that  1 
should  see  some  insanities,  do  them  in  your  clothes,  short  ones, 
and  such  as  come  readiest  to  hand ;  for  I  myself  want  nothing 
of  the  sort,  and,  as  I  have  said,  it  will  be  a  saving  of  time  for 
my  return,  which  will  be  with  the  news  your  worship  desires 
and  deserves.  If  not,  let  the  lady  Dulcinea  look  to  it ;  if  she 
does  not  answer  reasonably,  I  swear  as  solemnly  as  I  can  that 
I  will  fetch  a  fair  answer  out  of  her  stomach  with  kicks  and 
cuffs ;  for  why  should  it  be  borne  that  a  knight-errant  as 
famous  as  your  worship  should  go  mad  without  rhyme  or 
reason  for  a  — ?  her  ladyship  had  best  not  drive  me  to  say  it, 
for  by  God  I  will  speak  out  and  have  done  with  it,  though  it 
stop  the  sale  :  I  am  pretty  good  at  that !  she  little  knows  me ; 
faith,  if  she  knew  me  she  'd  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  In  faith,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  to  all  appearance 
thou  art  not  sounder  in  thy  wits  than  I  am." 

"  I  am  not  so  mad,"  answered  Sancho,  "■  but  I  am  more 
peppery  ;  but  apart  from  all  this,  what  has  your  worship  to  eat 
until  I  come  back  ?  Will  you  sally  out  on  the  road  like  Car- 
denio  to  force  it  from  the  shepherds  ?  " 

"  Let  not  that  anxiety  trouble  thee,"  replied  Don  Quixote, 
"  for  even  if  I  had  it  I  should  not  eat  anything  but  the  herbs 
and  the  fruits  which  this  meadow  and  these  trees  may  yield 
me ;  the  beauty  of  this  business  of  mine  lies  in  not  eating,  and 
in  performing  other  mortifications." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  am  afraid  of  ?  "  said  Sancho  upon 
this ;  "  that  I  shall  not  be  able  to  find  my  way  back  to  this 
spot  where  I  am  leaving  you,  it  is  siich  an  out-of-the-way  place." 

"  Observe  the  landmarks  well,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  I  will 
try  not  to  go  far  from  this  neighborhood,  and  I  will  even  take 
care  to  mount  the  highest  of  these  rocks  to  see  if  I  can  dis- 
cover thee  returning ;  however,  not  to  miss  me  and  lose  thyself, 
the  best  plan  will  be  to  cut  some  branches  of  the  broom  that 
is  so  abundant  about  here,  and  as  thou  goest  to  lay  them  at 
intervals  until  thou  hast  come  out  upon  the  plain  ;  these  ^vill 


CHAPTER    XXVI.  203 

serve  thee,  after  the  fashion  of  the  clew  in  the  labyrinth  of 
Theseus,  as  marks  and  signs  for  finding  me  on  thy  return." 

"  So  I  will,"  said  Sancho  Panza,  and  having  cut  some,  he 
asked  his  master's  blessing,  and  not  without  many  tears  on  both 
sides  took  his  leave  of  him,  and  mounting  Rocinante,  of  whom 
Don  Quixote  charged  him  earnestly  to  have  as  much  care  as 
of  his  own  person,  he  set  out  for  the  plain,  strewing  at  intervals 
the  branches  of  broom  as  his  master  had  recommended  him  ; 
and  so  he  went  his  way,  though  Don  Quixote  still  entreated 
liim  to  see  him  do  were  it  only  a  couple  of  mad  acts.  He  had 
not  gone  a  hundred  paces,  however,  when  he  returned  and  said, 
^'  I  must  say,  seiior,  your  worship  said  quite  right,  that  in  order 
to  be  able  to  swear  without  a  weight  on  my  conscience  that  I 
had  seen  you  do  mad  things,  it  would  be  w^ell  for  me  to  see  if 
it  were  only  one ;  though  in  your  worship's  remaining  here  I 
have  seen  a  very  great  one." 

^'  Did  I  not  tell  thee  so  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote.  "  Wait,  Sancho, 
and  I  will  do  them  in  the  saying  of  a  credo,"  and  pulling  off 
his  breeches  in  all  haste  he  stripped  himself  to  his  skin  and 
his  shirt,  and  then,  without  more  ado,  he  cut  a  couple  of  gam- 
bados ^  in  the  air,  and  a  couple  of  somersaults,  heels  over  head, 
making  such  a  display  that,  not  to  see  it  a  second  time,  Sancho 
wheeled  Rocinante  round,  and  felt  easy,  and  satisfied  in  his 
mind  that  he  could  swear  he  had  left  his  master  mad  ;  and  so 
we  will  leave  him  to  follow  his  road  until  his  return,  which  was 
a  quick  one. 


CHAPTER   XXYI. 

IN  WHICH  ARE  CONTINUED  THE  KEFINEMENTS  WHEREWITH 
DON  QUIXOTE  PLAYED  THE  PART  OF  A  LOVER  IN  THE 
SIERRA    MORENA. 

Returning  to  the  proceedings  of  him  of  the  Rueful  Coun- 
tenance when  he  found  himself  alone,  the  history  says  that 
when  Don  Quixote  had  completed  the  performance  of  the  som- 
ersaults or  capers,  naked  from  the  waist  down  and  clothed  from 
the  waist  up,  and  saw  that  Sancho  had  gone  off  without  wait- 
ing to  see  any  more  crazy  feats,  he  climbed  up  to  the  top  of  a 

'  Zapatetas,  capers  in  which  the  sole  of  the  shoe  is  struck  with  the 
hand. 


204  DON    QUIXOTE. 

high  rock,  and  there  set  himself  to  consider  what  he  had  sev- 
eral times  before  considered  without  ever  coming  to  any  con- 
clusion on  the  point,  namely,  whether  it  would  be  better  and 
more  to  his  purpose  to  imitate  the  outrageous  madness  of  Roland, 
or  the  melancholy  madness  of  Amadis ;  and  communing  with 
himself  he  said,  ''  What  wonder  is  it  if  Eoland  was  so  good  a 
knight  and  so  valiant  as  every  one  says  he  was,  when,  after  all, 
he  was  enchanted,  and  nobody  could  kill  him  save  by  thrusting  a 
corking  pin  ^  into  the  sole  of  his  foot,  and  he  always  wore  shoes 
with  seven  iron  soles  ?  Though  cunning  devices  did  not  avail 
him  against  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  who  knew  all  about  them,  and 
strangled  him  in  his  arms  at  Roncesvalles.  But  putting  the 
question  of  his  valor  aside,  let  us  come  to  his  losing  his  wits, 
for  certain  it  is  that  he  did  lose  them  in  consequence  of  the 
proofs  he  discovered  at  the  foiuitain,  and  the  intelligence  the 
shepherd  gave  him  of  Angelica  having  slept  more  than  two 
afternoons  with  ^ledoro,  a  little  curly-headed  Moor,  and  page 
to  Agramante."-^  If  he  was  persuaded  that  this  was  true,  and 
that  his  lady  had  wronged  him,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  should 
have  gone  mad  ;  but  I,  how  am  I  to  imitate  him  in  his  madness, 
iniless  I  can  imitate  him  in  the  cause  of  it  ?  For  my  Dulcinea, 
I  will  venture  to  swear,  never  saw  a  Moor,  as  he  is  in  his  proper 
costume,  in  her  life,  and  is  this  day  as  the  mother  that  bore  her, 
and  I  should  plainly  be  doing  her  a  wrong  if,  fancying  any- 
thing else,  I  were  to  go  mad  with  the  same  kind  of  madness 
as  '  Roland  the  Furious.'  On  the  other  hand,  I  see  that  Ama- 
dis of  Gaul,  without  losing  his  senses  and  without  doing  any- 
thing mad,  acquired  as  a  lover  as  much  fame  as  the  most  fa- 
mous ;  for,  according  to  his  history,  on  finding  himself  rejected 
by  his  lady  Oriana,  who  had  ordered  him  not  to  appear  in  her 
presence  until  it  should  be  her  pleasure,  all  he  did  was  to  retire 

'Properly  a  "  blanca  pin,"  i.e.,  of  the  size  sold  for  a  blanca,  or  half  a 
inaravedi,  as  we  say  a  "  tenpenny  nail."  Viardot,  strangely  misinterpret- 
ing the  very  common  idiom  de  a,  indicating  the  price  of  an  article,  and 
fancying  the  6,  to  have  a  negative  power  as  in  Greek,  explains  it  as  "  a  pin 
made  of  some  substance  not  white." 

^  "  Occhi  avea  neri,  e  chioma  crespa  d'oro  : 
Angel  parea  di  quel  del  sommo  coro." 

Orlando  Furioso^  c.  xviii.  st.  16G. 

But  Medoro  was  not  in  the  service  of  Agramante,  but  in  that  of  Dardi- 
nel;and  a  little  higher  iip  Cervantes  has  made  another  slip  of  memory, 
for  it  was  not  Orlando,  but  Ferrau  who  wore  the 

"  sette  piastre  fatte  a  buone  tempre." 

Orlando  Furioso,  c.  xii,  st.  48. 


CHAPTER    XXVI.  205 

to  the  Pena  Pobre  in  company  with  a  hermit,  and  there  he  took 
his  till  of  weeping  until  Heaven  sent  him  relief  in  the  midst  of 
his  great  grief  and  need.  And  if  this  be  true,  as  it  is,  why 
should  I  now  take  the  trouble  to  strip  stark  naked,  or  do  mis- 
chief to  these  trees  which  have  done  me  no  harm,  or  why  am  I 
to  disturb  the  clear  waters  of  these  brooks  which  will  give  me 
to  drink  whenever  I  have  a  mind  ?  Long  live  the  memory  of 
Amadis,  and  let  him  be  imitated  so  far  as  is  possible  by  Don 
Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  of  whom  it  will  be  said,  as  was  said  of 
the  other,  that  if  he  did  not  achieve  great  things,  he  died  in  at- 
tempting them ;  and  if  I  am  not  repulsed  or  rejected  by  my  Dul- 
cinea,  it  is  enough  for  me,  as  I  have  said,  to  be  absent  from  her. 
And  so,  now  to  business  ;  come  to  my  memory  ye  deeds  of  Ama- 
dis, and  show  me  how  I  am  to  begin  to  imitate  you.  I  knoAV 
already  that  what  he  chiefly  did  was  to  pray  and  commend  him- 
self to  God ;  but  what  am  I  to  do  for  a  rosary,  for  I  have  not 
got  one  ?  "  And  then  it  occurred  to  him  how  he  might  make 
one,  and  that  was  by  tearing  a  great  strip  off  the  tail  of  his 
shirt  which  hung  down,  and  making  eleven  knots  on  it,  one 
bigger  than  the  rest,  and  this  served  him  for  a  rosary  all  the 
time  he  was  there,  during  which  he  repeated  countless  ave- 
marias.^  But  what  distressed  him  greatly  was  not  having 
another  hermit  there  to  confess  him  and  receive  consolation 
from ;  and  so  he  solaced  himself  with  pacing  up  and  down  the 
little  meadow,  and  writing  and  carving  on  the  bark  of  the  trees 
and  on  the  fine  sand  a  multitude  of  verses  all  in  harmony  with 
his  sadness,  and  some  in  praise  of  Dulcinea ;  but,  when  lie  was 
found  there  afterwards,  the  only  ones  completely  legible  that 
could  be  discovered  were  those  that  follow  here : 

Ye  on  the  mountain  side  that  grow. 

Ye  green  things  all,  trees,  shrubs,  and  bushes, 
Are  ye  aweary  of  the  woe 

That  this  jjoor  aching  bosom  crushes  ? 
If  it  disturb  you,,  and  I  owe 

Some  reparation,  it  may  be  a 
Defence  for  me  to  let  you  know 
Don  Quixote's  tears  are  on  the  flow, 

And  all  for  distant  Dulcinea 
Del  Toboso. 

'  It  is  tlius  the  passage  stands  in  the  first  edition.  In  the  second  Don 
Quixote  makes  his  rosary  with  oak  galls  off  a  cork  tree.  The  alteration 
was  made,  no  doubt,  at  the  suggestion  of  some  critics  who  thought  the 
passage  indecorous,  but  Cervantes  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.~ 


206  DON    QUIXOTE. 

The  lealest  lover  time  can  show, 

Doomed  for  a  lady-love  to  languish^ 
Among  these  solitudes  doth  go, 

A  prey  to  every  kind  of  anguish. 
AYhy  Love  should  like  a  spiteful  foe 

Thus  use  him,  he  hath  no  idea, 
But  hogsheads  full  —  this  doth  he  know  — 
Don  Quixote's  tears  are  on  the  flow, 

And  all  for  distant  Dulcinea 
Del  Toboso. 

Adventure-seeking  doth  he  go 

Up  ragged  heights,  down  rocky  valleys, 
But  hill  or  dale,  or  high  or  low. 

Mishap  attendeth  all  his  sallies  : 
Love  still  pursues  him  to  and  fro, 

And  plies  his  cruel  scourge  —  ah  me  !  a 
Relentless  fate,  an  endless  woe ; 
Don  Quixote's  tears  are  on  the  flow, 

And  all  for  distant  Dulcinea 

Del  Toboso.i 

The  addition  of  "  Del  Toboso "  to  Dulcinea's  name  gave 
rise  to  no  little  laughter  among  those  who  found  the  above 
lines,  for  they  suspected  Don  Quixote  must  have  fancied  that 
unless  he  added  "  del  Toboso  "  when  he  introduced  the  name  of 
Dulcinea  the  verse  would  be  unintelligible :  which  was  indeed 
the  fact,  as  he  himself  afterwards  admitted.  He  wrote  many 
more,  but,  as  has  been  said,  these  three  verses  were  all  that 
could  be  plainly  and  perfectly  deciphered.  In  this  way,  and 
in  sighing  and  calling  on  the  fauns  and  satyrs  of  the  woods 
and  the  nymphs  of  the  streams,  and  Echo,  moist  and  mournful, 
to  answer,  console,  and  hear  him,  as  Avell  as  in  looking  for 
herbs  to  sustain  him,  he  passed  his  time  until  Sancho's  return  ; 
and  had  that  been  delayed  three  Aveeks,  as  it  was  three  days, 
the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance  would  have  worn  such 
an  altered  countenance  that  the  mother  that  bore  him  would 

'  In  its  ingenuity  of  rhyme  and  versification  and  its  transcendent  ab- 
surdity this  is  the  best  piece  of  humorous  verse  in  Don  Quixote.  Even 
C'lemencin,  who  generally  grumbles  at  the  verses  of  Cervantes,  can  not 
help  giving  it  a  word  of  praise.  It  is,  of  course,  impossible  in  English 
translation  to  do  more  than  suggest  the  character  of  the  original,  for  any- 
thing like  close  imitation  is  unattainable. 


CHAPTER    XXVI.  207 

not  have  known  him  :  and  here  it  will  be  well  to  leave  him, 
wrapped  np  in  sighs  and  verses,  to  relate  how  8ancho  Pan/a 
fared  on  his  mission. 

As  for  him,  coming  out  upon  the  high  road,  he  made  for  El 
Toboso,  and  the  next  day  reached  the  inn  where  the  mishap  of 
the  blanket  had  befallen  him.  As  soon  as  he  recognized  it  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  once  more  flying  through  the  air,  and  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  enter  it  though  it  was  an  hour  when 
he  might  well  have  done  so,  for  it  was  dinner-time,  and  he 
longed  to  taste  something  hot  as  it  had  been  all  cold  fare  with 
him  for  many  days  past.  This  craving  drove  him  to  draw 
near  to  the  inn,  still  imdecided  whether  to  go  in  or  not,  and  as 
he  was  hesitating  there  came  out  two  persons  who  at  once 
recognized  him,  and  said  one  to  the  other,  "  Seiior  licentiate, 
is  not  he  on  the  horse  there  Sancho  Panza  who,  our  advent- 
urer's housekeeper  told  us,  Avent  off  with  her  master  as 
esquire  ?  " 

"  So  it  is,"  said  the  licentiate,  "  and  that  is  our  friend  Don 
Quixote's  horse  ; "  and  if  they  knew  him  so  well  it  was  be- 
cause they  were  the  curate  and  the  barber  of  his  own  village, 
the  same  who  had  carried  out  the  scrutiny  and  sentence  upon 
the  books ;  and  as  soon  as  they  recognized  Sancho  Panza  and 
Rocinante,  being  anxious  to  hear  of  Don  Quixote,  they  ap- 
proached, and  calling  him  by  his  name  the  curate  said, 
'*  Friend  Sancho  Panza,  where  is  your  nuister  ?  " 

Sancho  recognized  them  at  once,  and  determined  to  kee}) 
secret  the  place  and  circumstances  Avhere  and  under  which  he 
had  left  his  master,  so  he  replied  that  his  master  was  engaged 
in  a  certain  quarter  on  a  certain  matter  of  great  importance  to 
him  which  he  could  not  disclose  for  the  eyes  in  his  head. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  barber,  ''  if  you  don't  tell  us  where  he 
is,  Sancho  Panza,  we  will  suspect,  as  we  suspect  already,  that 
you  have  murdered  and  robbed  him,  for  here  you  are  mounted 
on  his  horse;  in  fact,  you  must  produce  the  master  of  the 
hack,  or  else  take  the  consequences." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  threats  with  me,"  said  Sancho,  "  for  I 
am  not  a  man  to  rob  or  murder  anybody ;  let  his  own  fate,  or 
God  who  made  him,  kill  each  one ;  my  master  is  engaged  very 
much  to  his  taste  doing  penance  in  the  midst  of  these  moun- 
tains ;  "  and  then,  offhand  and  without  stopping,  he  told  them 
how  he  had  left  him,  what  adventures  had  befallen  him,  and 
how  he  was  carrying  a  letter  to  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso, 


208  DON    QUIXOTE. 

the  daughter  of  Lorenzo  Corchuelo,  with  whom  he  was  over 
head  and  ears  in  love.^  They  were  both  amazed  at  Avhat 
Sancho  Panza  tokl  them  ;  for  though  they  were  aware  of  Don 
Quixote's  madness  and  the  nature  of  it,  each  time  they  heard 
of  it  they  Avere  filled  with  fresh  wonder.  They  then  asked 
Sancho  Panza  to  show  them  the  letter  he  was  carrying  to  the 
lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso.  He  said  it  was  Avritten  in  a  note- 
book, and  that  his  master's  directions  were  that  he  should 
have  it  copied  on  paper  at  the  first  village  he  came  to.  On 
this  the  curate  said  if  he  showed  it  to  him,  he  himself  would 
make  a  fair  copy  of  it.  Sancho  put  his  hand  into  his  bosom 
in  search  of  the  note-book  but  could  not  find  it,  nor,  if  he  had 
been  searching  until  now,  could  he  have  found  it,  for  Don 
Quixote  had  kept  it,  and  had  never  given  it  to  him,  nor  had 
he  himself  thought  of  asking  for  it.  When  Sancho  discovered 
he  could  not  find  the  book  his  face  grew  deadly  pale,  and  in 
great  haste  he  again  felt  his  body  all  over,  and  seeing  plainly 
it  was  not  to  be  found,  without  more  ado  he  seized  his  beard 
with  both  hands  and  plucked  away  half  of  it,  and  then,  as 
quick  as  he  could  and  without  stopping,  gave  himself  half 
a  dozen  cuffs  on  the  face  and  nose  till  they  were  bathed  in 
blood. 

Seeing  this,  the  curate  and  the  barber  asked  him  what  had 
happened  him  that  he  gave  himself  such  rough  treatment. 

'^  What  should  happen  me  ?  "  replied  Sancho,  "  biit  to  have 
lost  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  in  a  moment,  three  ass-colts, 
each  of  them  like  a  castle  ?  " 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  said  the  barber. 

"  I  have  lost  the  note-book,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  contained 
the  letter  to  Dulcinea,  and  an  order  signed  by  my  master  in 
which  he  directed  his  niece  to  give  me  three  ass-colts  out  of 
four  or  five  he  had  at  home  ;  "  and  he  then  told  them  about 
the  loss  of  Dapple. 

The  curate  consoled  him,  telling  him  that  when  his  master 
was  found  he  would  get  him  to  renew  the  order,  and  make  a 
fresh  draft  on  paper,  as  was  usual  and  customary  ;  for  those 
made  in  note-books  were  never  accepted  or  honored. 

Sancho  comforted  himself  with  this,  and  said  if  that  were 
so  the  loss  of  Dulcinea's  letter  did  not  trouble  him  much,  for 
he  had  it  almost  by  heart,  and  it  could  be  taken  down  from 
him  wherever  and  whenever  they  liked. 

'  The  Spanish  phrase  is  stronger  —  hasta  los  higados — "down  to  the 
liver." 


CHAPTER    XXVI.  209 

"  Repeat  it  then,  Saiicho,"  said  tlio  l);irl)er,  ^'  and  we  will 
write  it  down  afterwards." 

Sanclio  Panza  stopped  to  scratch  his  head  to  bring  back  the 
letter  to  his  memory,  and  balanced  himself  now  on  one  foot, 
now  the  other,  one  moment  staring  at  the  gronnd,  the  next  at 
the  sky,  and  after  having  half  gnawed  off  tlie  end  of  a  finger 
and  kept  them  in  suspense  waiting  for  him  to  begin,  he  said, 
after  a  long  pause,  "  By  God,  senor  licentiate,  devil  a  thing 
can  I  recollect  of  the  letter ;  but  it  said  at  the  beginning, 
'  Exalted  and  scrid)bing  Lady.'  " 

"  It  cannot  have  said  '  scrubbing,'  said  the  barber,  "  but 
'  superhuman  '  or  sovereign.'  " 

"  That  is  it,"  said  Sancho  ;  "•  then,  as  well  as  I  remember,  it 
went  on,  '  The  wounded,  and  wanting  of  sleep,  and  the  pierced, 
kisses  your  worship's  hands,  ungrateful  and  very  unrecognized 
fair  one ; '  and  it  said  something  or  other  about  health  and 
sickness  that  he  was  sending  her  ;  and  from  that  it  went  tail- 
ing off  until  it  ended  with  '  Yours  till  death,  the  Knight  of  the 
Rueful  Countenance.'  " 

It  gave  them  no  little  amusement,  both  of  them,  to  see  what 
a  good  memory  Sancho  had,  and  they  complimented  him  greatly 
upon  it,  and  l)egged  him  to  repeat  the  letter  a  couple  of  times 
more,  so  that  they  too  might  get  it  by  heart  to  Avrite  it  out  by- 
and-by.  Sancho  repeated  it  three  times,  and  as  he  did,  uttered 
three  thousand  more  absurdities  ;  then  he  told  them  more 
about  his  master  ;  but  he  never  said  a  word  about  the  blanket- 
ing that  had  befallen  lumself  in  that  inn,  into  which  he  refused 
to  enter.  He  told  them^  moreover,  how  his  lord,  if  he  brought 
him  a  favorable  answer  from  the  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso, 
was  to  put  himself  in  the  way  of  endeavoring  to  become  an 
emperor,  or  at  least  a  monarch ;  for  it  had  been  so  settled  be- 
tween them,  and  with  his  personal  worth  and  the  might  of  his 
arm  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  come  to  be  one  :  and  how  on 
becoming  one  his  lord  was  to  make  a  marriage  for  him  (for  he 
Avould  be  a  widower  by  that  time,  as  a  matter  of  course)  and 
was  to  give  him  as  a  wife  one  of  the  damsels  of  the  empress, 
the  heiress  of  some  rich  and  grand  state  on  the  mainland,  hav- 
ing nothing  to  do  with  islands  of  any  sort,  for  he  did  not  care 
for  them  now.  All  this  Sancho  delivered  with  so  much  com- 
posure —  wiping  his  nose  from  time  to  time  —  and  Avith  so 
little  common-sense  that  his  two  hearers  were  again  filled  with 
wonder  at  the  force  of  Don  Quixote's  madness  that  could  run 

Vol.  I.  —  U 


210  DON    QUIXOTE. 

away  with  this  poor  man's  reason.  They  did  not  care  to  take 
the  trouble  of  disabusing  him  of  his  error,  as  they  considered 
that  since  it  did  not  in  any  way  hurt  his  conscience  it  would 
be  better  to  leave  him  in  it,  and  they  would  have  all  the  more 
amusement  in  listening  to  his  simplicities ;  and  so  they  bade 
him  pray  to  God  for  his  lord's  health,  as  it  was  a  very  likely 
and  a  very  feasible  thing  for  him  in  course  of  time  to  come  to 
be  an  emperor,  as  he  said,  or  at  least  an  archbishop  or  some 
other  dignitary  of  equal  rank. 

To  which  Sancho  made  answer,  "  If  fortune,  sirs,  should 
bring  things  about  in  such  a  way  that  my  master  should  have 
a  mind,  instead  of  being  an  emperor,  to  be  an  archbishop,  I 
should  like  to  know  what  archbishops-errant  commonly  give 
their  squires  ?  " 

"  They  commonly  give  them,"  said  the  curate,  '^  some  simple 
benefice  or  cure,  or  some  place  as  sacristan  which  brings  them 
a  good  fixed  income,  not  counting  the  altar  fees,  which  may  be 
reckoned  at  as  much  more." 

"  But  for  that,"  said  Sancho,  "  the  squire  must  be  unmarried, 
and  must  know,  at  any  rate,  how  to  help  at  Mass,  and  if  that 
be  so,  woe  is  me,  for  I  am  married  already  and  I  don't  know 
the  first  letter  of  the  ABC.  What  will  become  of  me  if  my 
master  takes  a  fancy  to  be  an  archbishop  and  not  an  emperor, 
as  is  usual  and  customary  with  knights-errant  ?  " 

'*  Be  not  uneasy,  friend  .Sancho,"  said  the  barber,  ''  for  we 
will  entreat  your  master,  and  advise  him,  even  urging  it  upon 
him  as  a  case  of  conscience,  to  become  an  emperor  and  not  an 
archbisho}),  because  it  will  be  easier  for  him  as  he  is  more  val- 
iant than  lettered." 

"  So  I  have  thought,"  said  Sancho  ;  "  though  I  can  tell  you 
he  is  fit  for  anything :  what  I  mean  to  do  for  my  part  is  to 
pray  to  our  Lord  to  place  him  Avhere  it  may  be  best  for  him, 
and  where  he  may  be  able  to  bestow  most  favors  upon  me." 

"  You  speak  like  a  man  of  sense,"  said  the  curate,  "  and  you 
Avill  be  acting  like  a  good  Christian ;  but  what  must  now  be 
done  is  to  take  steps  to  coax  your  master  out  of  that  useless 
penance  you  say  he  is  performing  ;  and  we  had  best  turn  into 
this  inn  to  consider  what  plan  to  adopt,  and  also  to  dine,  for  it 
is  now  time." 

Sancho  said  they  might  go  in,  but  that  he  would  wait  there 
outside,  that  he  would  tell  them  afterwards  the  reason  why  he 
was  unwilling,  and  why  it  did  not  suit  him  to  enter  it ;  but  he 


CHAPTER    XXVII.  211 

begged  them  to  bring  him  out  something  to  eat,  and  to  let  it  be 
hot,  and  also  to  bring  barley  for  Roeinante.  They  left  him  and 
went  in,  and  presently  the  barber  brought  him  out  something  to 
eat.  By-and-by,  after  they  had  between  them  carefully  thought 
over  what  they  should  do  to  carry  out  their  object,  the  curate 
hit  upon  an  idea  very  well  adapted  to  humor  Don  Qidxote,  and 
effect  their  purpose ;  and  his  notion,  Avhich  he  explained  to  the 
barber,  was  that  he  himself  should  assume  the  disguise  of  a  wan- 
dering damsel,  while  the  other  should  try  as  best  he  could  to  pass 
for  a  squire,  and  that  they  should  thus  proceed  to  where  Don 
Quixote  was,  and  he,  pretending  to  be  an  aggrieved  and  dis- 
tressed damsel,  should  ask  a  favor  of  him,  which  as  a  valiant 
knight-errant  he  could  not  refuse  to  grant ;  and  the  favor  he 
meant  to  ask  him  was  that  he  should  accompany  her  whither  she 
would  conduct  him,  in  order  to  redress  a  wrong  which  a  wicked 
knight  had  done  her,  while  at  the  same  time  she  should  entreat 
him  not  to  require  her  to  remove  her  mask,  nor  ask  her  any  ques- 
tion touching  her  circuaustances  until  he  had  righted  her  with 
the  wicked  knight.  And  he  had  no  doubt  that  Don  Quixote 
would  comply  with  any  request  made  in  these  terms,  and  that 
in  this  way  they  might  remove  him  and  take  him  to  his  own 
village,  where  they  would  endeavor  to  find  out  if  his  extraor- 
dinary madness  admitted  of  any  kind  of  remedy. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

OF  HOW  THE  CURATE  AND  THE  BARBER  PROCEEDED  WITH 
THEIR  SCHEME  ;  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER  MATTERS  WORTHY 
OF    RECORD    IN    THIS    GREAT    HISTORY. 

The  curate's  plan  did  not  seem  a  bad  one  to  the  barber,  but 
on  the  contrary  so  good  that  they  immediately  set  about  put- 
ting it  in  execution.  They  begged  a  petticoat  and  hood  of  the 
landlady,  leaving  her  in  })ledge  a  new  cassock  of  the  curate's  ; 
and  the  barber  made  a  beard  out  of  a  gray  or  red  ox-tail  in 
which  the  landlord  used  to  stick  his  comb.  The  landlady 
asked  them  what  they  wanted  these  things  for,  and  the  curate 
told  her  in  a  few  words  about  the  madness  of  Don  Quixote 
and  how  this  disguise  was  intended  to  get  him  away  from 
the  mountain  where  he  then  was.     The  landlord  and  landlady 


212  DON    QUIXOTE. 

immediately  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  madman  was  their 
guest,  the  balsam  man  and  master  of  the  blanketed  squire,  and 
they  told  the  curate  all  that  had  passed  between  him  and 
them,  not  omitting  what  Sancho  had  been  so  silent  about. 
Finally  the  landlady  dressed  up  the  curate  in  a  style  that  left 
nothing  to  be  desired ;  she  put  on  him  a  cloth  petticoat  with 
black  velvet  stripes  a  palm  broad,  all  slashed,  and  a  bodice  of 
green  velvet  set  off  by  a  binding  of  white  satin,  which  as  well 
as  the  petticoat  must  have  been  made  in  the  time  of  king 
Wamba.^  The  curate  woidd  not  let  them  cover  him  with  the 
hood,  but  put  on  his  head  a  little  quilted  linen  cap  which  he 
used  for  a  night-cap,  and  bound  his  forehead  with  a  strip  of 
black  silk,  while  with  another  he  made  a  mask  Avith  which  he 
concealed  his  beard  and  face  very  well.  He  then  put  on  his  hat, 
which  was  broad  enough  to  serve  him  for  an  umbrella,  and  en- 
veloping himself  in  his  cloak  seated  himself  woman-fashion 
on  his  mule,  while  the  barber  mounted  his  with  a  beard  down 
to  the  waist  of  mingled  red  and  white,  for  it  was,  as  has  been 
said,  the  tail  of  a  red  ox.  They  took  leave  of  all,  and  of  the 
good  Maritornes,  who,  sinner  as  she  was,  promised  to  pray  a 
rosary  of  prayers  that  God  might  grant  them  success  in  such 
an  arduous  and  Christian  undertaking  as  that  they  had  in 
hand.  But  hardly  had  he  sallied  forth  from  the  inn  when  it 
struck  the  curate  that  he  was  doing  wrong  in  rigging  himself 
out  in  that  fashion,  as  it  was  an  indecorous  thing  for  a  priest 
to  dress  himself  that  way  even  though  much  might  depend 
upon  it ;  and  saying  so  to  the  barber  he  begged  him  to  change 
dresses,  as  it  was  fitter  he  should  be  the  distressed  damsel, 
while  he  himself  would  play  the  squire's  part,  which  would  be 
less  derogatory  to  his  dignity ;  otherwise  he  was  resolved  to 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  the  matter,  and  let  the  devil 
take  Don  Quixote.  Just  at  this  moment  Sancho  came  up,  and 
on  seeing  the  pair  in  such  a  costume  he  was  unable  to  re- 
strain his  laughter ;  the  barber,  however,  agreed  to  do  as  the 
curate  wished,  and,  altering  their  plan,  the  curate  went  on  to 
instruct  him  how  to  play  his  part  and  what  to  say  to  Don  Qui- 
xote to  induce  and  compel  him  to  come  with  them  and  give  up 
his  fancy  for  the  place  he  had  chosen  for  his  idle  penance. 
The  barber  told  him  he  could  manage  it  properly  without 
any  instruction,  and  as  he  did  not  care  to  dress  himself  up 
until  they  were  near  where  Don  Quixote  was,  he  folded  up  the 

■  Wamba,  a  king  of  the  Gothic  line  who  reigned  from  672  to  680. 


CHAPTER    XXVII.  213 

garments,  and  the  curate  adjusted  his  beard,  and  they  set  out 
under  the  guidance  of  Sancho  Panza,  who  went  along  telling 
them  of  the  encounter  with  the  madman  they  met  in  the 
Sierra,  saying  nothing,  however,  about  the  finding  of  the  valise 
and  its  contents ;  for  with  all  his  simplicity  the  lad  was  a  trifle 
covetous. 

The  next  day  they  reached  the  place  where  Sancho  had  laid 
the  broom-branches  as  marks  to  direct  him  to  where  he  had 
left  his  master,  and  recognizing  it  he  told  them  that  here  was 
the  entrance,  and  that  they  would  do  well  to  dress  themselves, 
if  that  was  required  to  deliver  his  master  ;  for  they  had  al- 
ready told  him  that  going  in  this  guise  and  dressing  in  this 
way  were  of  the  highest  importance  in  order  to  rescue  his 
master  from  the  pernicious  life  he  had  adopted  ;  and  they 
charged  him  strictly  not  to  tell  his  master  who  they  were,  or 
that  he  knew  them,  and  should  he  ask,  as  ask  he  would,  if  he 
had  given  the  letter  to  Dulcinea,  to  say  he  had,  and  that,  as 
she  did  not  know  hoAV  to  read,^  she  had  given  an  answer  by 
word  of  mouth,  saying  that  she  commanded  him,  on  pain  of 
her  displeasure,  to  come  and  see  her  at  once  ;  and  it  was  a  very 
important  matter  for  himself,  because  in  this  way  and  Avith 
what  they  meant  to  say  to  him  they  felt  sure  of  bringing  him 
back  to  a  better  mode  of  life  and  inducing  him  to  take  imme- 
diate steps  to  become  an  emperor  or  monarch,  for  there  was  no 
fear  of  his  becoming  an  archbishop.  All  this  Sancho  listened 
to  and  fixed  it  well  in  his  memory,  and  thanked  them  heartily 
for  intending  to  recommend  his  master  to  be  an  emperor  in- 
stead of  an  archbishop,  for  he  felt  sure  that  in  the  way  of 
bestowing  rewards  on  their  squires  emperors  could  do  more 
than  archbishops-errant.  He  said,  too,  that  it  would  be  as  well 
for  him  to  go  on  before  them  to  find  him,  and  give  liini  his 
lady's  answer ;  for  that  perhai)S  might  be  enough  to  bring 
him  away  from  the  place  without  putting  them  to  all  this 
trouble.  They  approved  of  what  Sancho  proposed,  and  re- 
solved to  wait  for  him  until  he  brought  back  word  of  having 
found  his  master. 

Sancho  pushed  into  the  glens  of  the  Sierra,  leaving  them  in 
one  through  which  there  flowed  a  little  gentle  rivulet,  and  where 
the  rocks  and  trees  afforded  a  cool  and  grateful  shade.  It  was 
an  August  day  with  all  the  heat  of  one,  and  the  heat  in  those 

'  A  curious  reason  for  giving  a  verbal  answer ;  but  if  slie  did  not  know- 
how  to  read,  a  fortiori  she  could  not  write. 


214  DON    QUIXOTE. 

parts  is  intense,  and  the  hour  was  three  in  the  afternoon,  all 
which  made  the  spot  the  more  inviting  and  tempted  them  to 
wait  there  for  Sancho's  return,  Avhich  they  did.  They  were  re- 
posing, then,  in  the  shade,  when  a  voice  unaccompanied  by  the 
notes  of  any  instrument,  but  sweet  and  pleasing  in  its  tone, 
reached  their  ears,  at  which  they  were  not  a  little  astonished, 
as  the  place  did  not  seem  to  them  likely  quarters  for  one  who 
sang  so  well ;  for  though  it  is  often  said  that  shepherds  of  rare 
voice  are  to  be  found  in  the  woods  and  fields,  this  is  rather  a 
flight  of  the  poet's  fancy  than  the  truth.  And  still  more  sur- 
prised were  they  when  they  perceived  that  what  they  heard 
sung  were  the  verses  not  of  rustic  shepherds,  but  of  the  polished 
wits  of  the  city ;  ^  and  so  it  proved,  for  the  verses  they  heard 
were  these :  ^ 

What  makes  my  quest  of  happiness  seem  vain  ? 

Disdain. 
AVhat  bids  me  to  abandon  hope  of  ease  ? 

Jealousies. 
What  holds  my  heart  in  anguish  of  suspense  ? 
Absence. 
If  that  be  so,  then  for  my  grief 
Where  shall  I  turn  to  seek  relief, 
When  hope  on  every  side  lies  slain 
By  Absence,  Jealousies,  Disdain  ? 
What  the  prime  cause  of  all  my  woe  doth  prove  ? 

Love. 
What  at  my  glory  ever  looks  askance  ? 

Chance. 
Whence  is  permission  to  afflict  me  given  ? 
Heaven. 
If  that  be  so,  I  but  await 
The  stroke  of  a  resistless  fate. 
Since,  working  for  my  woe,  these  three. 
Love,  Chance,  and  Heaven,  in  league  I  see. 

'  Cortesanos^  not  courtiers,  but  persons  w  lio  luive  caught  the  tone,  tastes, 
and  culture  of  La  Corte,  "  the  Court,"  as  the  capital  was  always  called. 

^  These  are  intended  to  be  echo  verses  ;  but,  as  Clemencin  has  pointed 
out,  the  echoes  are  nothing  but  rhymes.  In  the  novel  of  tiie  Ihistre  Fre- 
gona.  Cervantes  introduced  similar  verses,  which  Lope  de  Vega  turned 
into  ridicule  in  a  parody. 


CHAPTER    XXVII.  215 

What  must  I  do  to  find  a  remedy  ? 

Die. 
What  is  the  lure  for  love  when  coy  and  strange  ? 

Change. 
What,  if  all  fail,  will  cure  the  lieart  of  sadness  ? 
Madness. 
If  that  be  so,  it  is  but  folly 
To  seek  a  cure  for  melancholy : 
Ask  Avhere  it  lies  ;  the  answer  saith 
In  Change,  in  Madness,  or  in  Death. 

The  hour,  the  summer  season,  the  solitary  place,  the  voice 
and  skill  of  the  singer,  all  contributed  to  the  wonder  and  delight 
of  the  two  listeners,  who  remained  still  waiting  to  hear  some- 
thing more;  finding,  however,  that  the  silence  continued  some 
little  time,  they  resolved  to  go  in  search  of  the  musician  who 
sang  with  so  fine  a  voice ;  but  just  as  they  were  about  to  do  so 
they  were  checked  by  the  same  voice,  which  once  more  fell  upon 
their  ears,  singing  this 

SONNET." 

When  heavenward,  holy  Friendship,  thou  didst  go 
Soaring  to  seek  thy  home  beyond  the  sky, 
And  take  thv  seat  among  the  saints  on  hia'h. 

It  was  thy  will  to  leave  on  earth  below 

Thy  semblance,  and  upon  it  to  bestow 
Thy  veil,  wherewith  at  times  hypocrisy, 
Parading  in  thy  sha})e,  deceives  the  eye. 

And  makes  its  vileness  bright  as  virtue  show. 

Friendship,  return  to  us,  or  force  the  cheat 
That  wears  it  now,  thy  livery  to  restore. 
By  aid  whereof  sincerity  is  slain. 

If  thou  wilt  not  unmask  thy  counterfeit, 

This  earth  will  be  the  prey  of  strife  once  more, 
As  when  primeval  discord  held  its  reign. 

'  Notwithstanding  Clemencin's  dit^paraging  remark  that  this  is  "  of  the 
same  stuflf"  as  Cervantes'  sonnets  are  commonly  composed  of,  it  will  be 
seen,  even  in  translation,  that  there  is  at  least  a  backbone  here,  while  the 
serious  sonnets  of  Cervantes  are  only  too  often  little  better  tiian  inverte- 
brate twaddle.  Translation,  however,  can  not  reproduce  the  exquisite 
melody  of  the  original,  and,  had  it  no  other  merit,  this  alone  would,  juice 
Clemencin,  entitle  the  sonnet  to  a  place  among  the  best  in  the  Spanish 
language. 


216  DON    QUIXOTE. 

The  song  ended  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  again  the  listeners 
remained  waiting  attentively  for  the  singer  to  resume  ;  but  per- 
ceiving that  the  music  had  now  turned  to  sobs  and  heart-rend- 
ing moans  they  determined  to  find  out  who  the  unhappy  being 
could  be  whose  voice  was  as  rare  as  his  sighs  were  piteous,  and 
they  had  not  proceeded  far  when  on  turning  the  corner  of  a 
rock  they  discovered  a  man  of  the  same  aspect  and  appearance 
as  Sanclio  had  described  to  them  when  he  told  them  the  story 
of  Cardenio.  He,  showing  no  astonishment  Avhen  he  saw  them, 
stood  still  with  his  head  bent  down  upon  his  breast  like  one  in 
deep  thought,  without  raising  his  eyes  to  look  at  them  after 
the  first  glance  when  they  suddenly  came  upon  him.  The 
curate,  who  was  aware  of  his  misfortune  and  recognized  him 
by  the  description,  being  a  man  of  good  address,  approached 
him  and  in  a  few  sensible  words  eu treated  and  i;rged  him  to 
(piit  a  life  of  such  misery,  lest  he  should  end  it  there,  which 
would  be  the  greatest  of  all  misfortunes.  Cardenio  was  then 
in  his  right  mind,  free  from  any  attack  of  that  madness  which 
so  frequently  carried  him  away,  and  seeing  them  dressed  in  a 
fashion  so  unusual  among  the  frequenters  of  those  wilds,  could 
not  helj)  showing  some  surprise,  especially  when  he  heard  them 
speak  of  his  case  as  if  it  were  a  well-known  matter  (for  the 
curate's  words  gave  him  to  understand  as  much)  ;  so  he  replied 
to  them  thus,  "  I  see  plainly,  sirs,  whoever  you  may  be,  that 
Heaven,  whose  care  it  is  to  succor  the  good,  and  even  the 
wicked  very  often,  here,  in  this  remote  spot,  cut  ofi'  from  human 
intercourse,  sends  me,  though  I  deserve  it  not,  those  who  seek 
to  draw  me  away  from  this  to  some  better  retreat,  showing  me 
by  many  and  forcible  arguments  how  unreasonably  I  act  in 
leading  the  life  I  do ;  but  as  they  know  not  Avhat  I  know,  that 
if  I  escape  from  this  evil  I  shall  fall  into  another  still  greater, 
perhaps  they  will  set  me  down  as  a  weak-minded  man,  or,  what 
is  worse,  one  devoid  of  reason ;  nor  would  it  be  any  wonder,  for 
I  myself  can  perceive  that  the  effect  of  the  recollection  of  my 
nusfortunes  is  so  great  and  Avorks  so  powerfully  to  my  ruin, 
that  in  spite  of  myself  I  become  at  times  like  a  stone,  Avithout 
feeling  or  consciousness ;  and  I  come  to  feel  the  truth  of  it 
Avhen  they  tell  me  and  shoAv  me  proofs  of  the  things  I  have 
done  Avhen  the  terrible  fit  overmasters  me ;  and  all  I  can  do  is 
bcAvail  my  lot  in  vain,  and  idly  curse  my  destiny,  and  plead  for 
my  madness  by  telling  hoAv  it  was  caused,  to  any  that  care  to 
hear  it :  for  no  reasonable  beings  on  learning  the  cause  Avill 


CHAPTER    XXV 11.  217 

wonder  at  tlie  effects  ;  and  if  they  can  not  help  me  at  least 
they  will  not  blame  nie,  and  the  repugnance  they  feel  at  my 
wild  ways  will  turn  into  pity  for  my  woes.  If  it  be,  sirs,  that 
you  are  here  with  the  same  design  as  others  have  come  with, 
before  you  proceed  with  your  wise  arguments,  I  entreat  you  to 
hear  the  story  of  my  countless  misfortunes,  for  perhaps  when 
you  have  heard  it  you  will  spare  yourselves  the  trouble  you 
would  take  in  offering  consolation  to  grief  that  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  it." 

As  they,  both  of  them,  desired  nothing  more  than  to  hear 
from  his  own  lips  the  cause  of  his  suffering,  they  entreated 
him  to  tell  it,  promising  not  to  do  anything  for  his  relief  or 
comfort  that  he  did  not  wish;  and  thereupon  the  unhappy 
gentleman  began  his  sad  story  in  nearly  the  same  words  and 
manner  in  which  he  had  related  it  to  Don  Quixote  and  the  goat- 
herd a  few  days  before,  when,  through  Master  Elisabad,  and 
Don  Quixote's  scrupulous  observance  of  what  was  due  to  chiv- 
alry, the  tale  was  left  unfinished,  as  this  history  has  already 
recorded ;  but  now  fortunately  the  mad  fit  kept  off,  and  allowed 
him  to  tell  it  to  the  end ;  and  so,  coming  to  the  incident  of  the 
note  which  Don  Fernando  had  found  in  the  volume  of  "  Amadis 
of  Gaul,"  Cardenio  said  that  he  remembered  it  perfectly  and 
that  it  was  in  these  words  : 

"  Luscinda  to   Cardenio. 

"  Every  day  I  discover  merits  in  you  that  oblige  and  compel  me  to  hold 
you  in  higher  estimation;  so  if  you  desire  to  relieve  me  of  this  obliga- 
tion without  cost  to  my  honor,  you  may  easily  do  so.  I  have  a  father 
who  knows  you  and  loves  me  dearly,  wlio  without  putting  imy  constraint 
on  my  inclination  will  grant  what  will  be  reasonable  for  you  to  have,  if 
it  be  that  you  value  me  as  you  say  and  as  I  believe  you  do." 

By  this  letter  I  was  induced,  as  I  told  you,  to  demand  Luscinda 
for  my  wife,  and  it  was  through  it  that  Luscinda  came  to  be  I'egarded 
by  Don  Fernando  as  one  of  the  most  discreet  and  prudent  women  of 
the  day,  and  this  letter  it  was  that  suggested  his  design  of  ruining  me 
before  mine  could  be  carried  into  effect.  I  told  Uoii  Fernando  that 
all  Luscinda's  father  was  waiting  for  was  that  mine  sliould  ask  her 
of  him,  which  I  did  not  dare  to  suggest  to  him,  fearing  that  he 
would  not  consent  to  do  so ;  not  because  he  did  not  know  perfectly 
well  the  rank,  goodness,  virtue,  and  beauty  of  Luscinda,  and  that 
she  had  qualities  that  Avould  do  honor  to  any  family  in  Spain,  but 
because  I  was  aware  that  he  did  not  wish  me  to  marry  so  soon, 
before  seeing  what  the  duke  Ricardo  would  do  for  me.  In  short,  I 
told  him  I  did  not  venture  to  mention  it  to  my  father,  as  well  on 


218  DON    QUIXOTE. 

account  of  that  difficulty,  as  of  many  others  that  discom-aged  me, 
though  I  knew  not  well  what  they  were,  only  tliat  it  seemed  to  me 
that  what  I  desired  was  never  to  come  to  pass.  To  all  this  Don 
Fernando  answered  that  he  would  take  it  upon  himself  to  speak  to 
my  father,  and  persuade  him  to  speak  to  Luscinda's  father.  O,  am- 
bitious Marius !  O,  cruel  Catiline !  O,  wicked  Sylla !  O,  perfidious 
Ganelon !  O,  treacherous  Veliido !  O,  vindictive  Julian ! '  O,  covetous 
Judas!  Traitor,  cruel,  vindictive,  and  perfidious,  wherein  had  this 
poor  wretch  failed  in  his  fidelity,  who  with  such  frankness  showed 
thee  the  secrets  and  the  joys  of  his  heart  ?  What  offence  did  1  com- 
mit? What  words  did  1  utter,  or  what  counsels  did  I  give  that  had 
not  the  furtherance  of  thy  honor  and  welfare  for  their  aim  ?  But, 
woe  is  me,  wherefore  do  1  complain  ?  for  sure  it  is  that  when  mis- 
fortunes spring  from  the  stars,  descending  from  on  high  they  fall 
upon  us  with  such  fury  and  violence  that  no  power  on  earth  can 
check  their  course  nor  human  device  stay  their  coming.  Who  could 
have  thought  that  Don  Fernando,  a  high-born  gentleman,  intelligent, 
bound  to  me  by  gratitude  for  my  services,  one  that  could  win  the 
object  of  his  love  wherever  he  might  set  his  affections,  could  have 
become  so  morbid,  as  they  say,  as  to  rob  me  of  my  one  ewe  lamb 
that  was  not  even  yet  in  my  possession?  Bnt  laying  aside  these  use- 
less and  unavailing  reflections,  let  us  take  up  the  broken  thread  of 
my  unhappy  story. 

To  proceed,  then  :  Don  Fernando  finding  my  presence  an  obstacle 
to  the  execution  of  his  ti'eacherous  and  wicked  design,  resolved  to 
send  me  to  his  elder  brother  under  the  pretext  of  asking  money 
from  him  to  pay  for  six  horses  Avhich,  purposely,  and  with  the  sole 
object  of  sending  me  away  that  he  might  the  better  cany  out  his  in- 
fernal scheme,  he  had  purchasetl  the  very  day  he  oftered  to  speak 
to  my  father,  and  tlie  price  of  which  he  now  desired  me  to  fetch. 
Could  I  have  anticipated  this  treachery  ?  Could  I  by  any  chance 
have  suspected  it?  Nay ;  so  far  from  that,  I  offered  with  the  greatest 
pleasure  to  go  at  once,  in  my  satisfaction  at  the  good  bargain  that 
had  been  made.  That  night  I  spoke  with  Luscinda,  and  told  her 
what  had  been  agreed  upon  with  Don  Fernando,  and  how  I  liad 
strong  hopes  of  our  fair  and  reasonable  wishes  being  i-ealized.  She, 
as  unsuspicious  as  I  was  of  the  treachery  of  Don  Fernando,  bade  me 
try  to  return  speedily,  as  slie  believed  the  fulfilment  of  our  desires 
would  be  delayed  only  so  long  as  my  father  put  off  speaking  to  hers. 
I  know  not  wh}-  it  was  that  on  saying  this  to  me  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  there  came  a  lump  in  her  throat  that  prevented  her  from 
uttering  a  word  of  many  more  that  it  seemed  to  me  she  was  striving 
to  say  to  me.  I  was  astonished  at  this  unusual  turn,  which  I  never 
before  observed  in  her,  for  we  always  conversed,  whenever  good 
fortune   and   my  ingenuity  gave  us  the  chance,  with  the  greatest 

'  Ganelon  or  Galalon,  who  betrayed  Roland  and  the  Peers  at  Ronces- 
valles ;  Veliido  Dolf os,  who  treacherously  slew  Sancho  II.  at  the  siege  of 
Zamora  in  1072 ;  and  Count  Julian,  who  admitted  the  Arabs  into  Spain 
to  revenge  himself  upon  Roderic. 


CHAPTER    XXV 11.  219 

gayety  and  cheerfulness,  without  mingling  tears,  sighs,  jealousies, 
doubts,  or  fears  witli  our  words ;  it  was  all  on  my  part  a  eulogy  of 
my  good  fortune  that  Heaven  should  have  given  lier  to  me  for  my 
mistress ;  I  gloritied  her  beauty,  I  extolled  her  worth  and  her  under- 
standing; anil  she  paid  me  back  by  praising  in  me  what  in  lier  love 
for  me  sh«  thought  W(uthy  of  praise ;  and  besides  we  had  a  hundred 
thousand  trilles  and  doings  of  our  neighbors  and  acquaintances  to 
talk  about,  aijd  the  utmost  extent  of  my  boldness  was  to  take,  almost 
by  force,  one  of  her  fair  white  hands  and  carry  it  to  my  lips,  as  well 
as  the  closeness  of  the  low  grating  that  separated  us  allowed  me. 
But  the  night  before  the  unhappy  day  of  my  departure  she  wept,  she 
moaned,  she  sighed,  and  she  withdrew  leaving  me  tilled  with  per- 
plexity and  amazement,  overwhelmed  at  the  sight  of  such  strange 
and  affecting  signs  of  grief  and  sorrow  in  Luscinda;  but  not  to  dash 
my  hopes  I  ascribed  it  all  to  the  dcptli  of  her  love  for  me  and  the 
pain  that  separation  gives  those  who  love  tenderly.  At  last  I  took 
my  departure,  sad  and  dejected,  my  heart  tilled  \vith  fancies  and 
suspicions,  but  not  knowing  well  what  it  was  I  susi^ected  or  fancied ; 
plain  omens  pointing  to  the  sad  event  and  mistbrtune  that  was 
awaiting  me. 

I  reached  the  place  whither  I  had  been  sent,  gave  the  letter  to  Don 
Fernando's  brother,  and  was  kindly  received  but  not  j^romptly  dis- 
missed, for  he  desired  me  to  wait,  very  much  against  my  will,  eight 
days  in  some  place  where  the  duke  his  father  was  not  likely  to  see 
me,  as  his  brother  wrote  that  the  money  was  to  be  sent  without  his 
know^ledge ;  all  of  which  was  a  scheme  of  the  treacherous  Don 
Fernando,  for  his  brother  had  no  want  of  money  to  enable  iiim  to 
despatch  me  at  once. 

The  command  was  one  that  exposed  me  to  the  temptation  of  dis- 
obeying it,  as  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  endure  life  for  so  many 
days  separated  from  Luscinda,  especially  after  leaving  her  in  the 
sorrowful  mood  I  have  described  to  you ;  nevertheless  as  a  dutiful 
servant  I  obeyed,  though  I  felt  it  would  be  at  the  cost  of  my  well- 
being.  But  four  days  later  there  came  a  man  in  quest  of  me  with  a 
letter  which  he  gave  me,  and  w^hich  by  the  address  I  perceived  to  be 
from  Luscinda,  as  the  writing  was  hers.  I  opened  it  with  fear  -and 
trepidation,  persuaded  that  it  must  be  something  serious  that  had 
impelled  her  to  write  to  me  when  at  a  distance,  as  she  seldom  did  so 
when  I  was  near.  Before  reading  it  I  asked  the  man  who  it  was  that 
had  given  it  to  him,  and  how  long  he  had  been  upon  the  road ;  he 
told  me  that  as  he  happened  to  be  passing  through  one  of  the  streets 
of  the  city  at  the  hour  of  noon,  a  veiy  l^eautiful  lady  called  to  him 
from  a  window,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  said  to  him  hurriedly, 
"Brother,  if  you  are,  as  you  seem  to  be,  a  Christian,  for  the  love  of 
God  I  entreat  you  to  have  this  letter  despatched  without  a  moment's 
delay  to  the  person  named  in  the  address,  all  Avhich  is  well  known, 
and  by  this  you  will  render  a  great  service  to  our  Lord  ;  and  that  you 
may  be  at  no  inconvenience  in  doing  so  take  what  is  in  this  handker- 
chief;" and  said  he,  "with  this  she  threw  me  a  handkerchief  out  of 
the  window  in  which  were  tied  up  a  hundred  reals  and  this  gold  ring 


220  DON    QUIXOTE. 

which  I  bring  here  together  with  the  letter  I  have  given  you.  And 
then  without  waiting  for  any  answer  she  left  the  window,  thougli 
not  before  she  saw  me  take  the  letter  and  the  handkerchief,  and  I 
had  by  signs  let  her  know  that  I  would  do  as  she  bade  me ;  and  so, 
seeing  myself  so  well  paid  for  the  trouble  I  would  have  in  bringing 
it  to  you,  and  knowing  by  the  address  that  it  was  to  you  it  was  sent 
(for,  senor,  I  know  you  very  well),  and  also  unable  to  resist  that 
beautiful  lady's  tears,  T  resolved  to  trust  no  one  else,  but  to  come 
myself  and  give  it  to  you,  and  in  sixteen  hours  from  the  time  when 
it  was  given  me  1  have  made  the  journey,  which,  as  you  know,  is 
eighteen  leas^ues." 

All  the  while  the  good-natured  innDrovised  courier  was  telling  me 
this,  I  hung  upon  his  words,  my  legs  trembling  under  me  so  that  I 
could  scarcely  stand.  However,  I  opened  the  letter  and  read  these 
words : 

"  The  promise  Don  Fernando  gave  you  to  urge  your  father  to  speak  to 
mine,  he  has  fulfilled  much  more  to  his  own  satisfaction  than  to  your 
advantage.  I  have  to  tell  you,  senor,  that  he  has  deuiiinded  me  for  a 
wife,  and  my  father,  led  away  by  what  he  considers  Don  Fernando's 
superiority  over  you,  has  favored  liis  suit  so  cordially,  that  in  two  days 
hence  the  betrothal  is  to  take  place  with  such  secrecy  and  so  privately 
the  only  witnesses  are  to  be  the  heavens  above  and  a  few  of  the  house- 
hold. Picture  to  j'Ourself  the  state  I  am  in ;  judge  if  it  be  urgent  for  you 
to  come ;  the  issue  of  the  affair  will  show  you  whether  I  love  you  or  not. 
God  grant  tliis  may  come  to  your  hand  before  mine  shall  be  forced  to  Hnk 
itself  with  liis  who  keeps  so  ill  the  faith  that  he  has  pledged." 

Such,  in  brief,  were  the  words  of  the  letter,  words  that  made  me 
set  out  at  once  without  waiting  any  longer  for  reply  or  money ;  for 
I  now  saw  clearly  that  it  was  not  the  purchase  of  horses  but  of  his 
own  pleasure  that  had  made  Don  Fernando  send  me  to  his  brother. 
The  exasperation  I  felt  against  Don  Fernando,  joined  with  the  fear 
of  losing  the  prize  I  had  won  by  so  many  years  of  love  and  devotion, 
lent  me  wings;  so  that  almost  flying  I  reached  home  the  same  day, 
by  the  hour  whicli  served  for  speaking  with  Luscinda.  I  arrived 
unobserved,  and  left  the  mule  on  which  I  had  come,  at  the  house  of 
the  worthy  man  who  had  brought  me  tlie  letter,  and  fortune  was 
pleased  to  be  for  once  so  kind  tliat  I  found  Luscinda  at  the  grating 
that  was  the  witness  of  our  loves.  She  recognized  me  at  once,  and 
I  her,  but  not  as  she  ouglit  to  have  recognized  me,  or  I  her.  But  who 
is  there  in  the  world  that  can  boast  of  liaving fathomed  or  understood 
the  wavering  mind  and  unstable  nature  of  a  woman  ?  Of  a  truth  no 
one.  To  proceed:  as  soon  as  Luscinda  saw  me  she  said,  •'  Cardenio, 
I  am  in  my  bridal  dress,  and  the  treacherous  Don  Fernando  and  my 
covetous  father  are  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall  with  the  other  wit- 
nesses, who  shall  be  the  witnesses  of  my  death  before  they  witness 
my  betrothal.  Be  not  distressed,  my  friend,  but  contrive  to  be 
present  at  this  sacrifice,  and  if  that  can  not  be  prevented  by  my 
words,  I  have  a  dagger  concealed  which  will  prevent  more  deliberate 


CHAPTER    XXVII.  221 

violence,  putting  an  end  to  my  life  and  giving  thee  a  first  proof  of 
the  love  I  have  borne  and  bear  thee."  I  replied  to  her  distractedly 
and  hastily,  in  fear  lest  I  should  not  have  time  to  reply,  "  May  thy 
vsrords  be  verified  by  thy  deeds,  lady ;  and  if  thou  hast  a  dagger  to 
save  thy  honor,  I  have  a  sword  to  defend  thee  or  kill  myself  if 
fortune  be  against  us." 

I  thinlv  she  could  not  have  heard  all  these  words,  for  I  perceived 
that  they  called  her  away  in  haste,  as  the  bridegroom  was  waiting. 
Now  the  night  of  my  sorrow  set  in,  the  sun  of  my  happiness  went 
down,  I  felt  my  eyes  bereft  of  sight,  my  mind  of  reason.  I  could 
not  enter  the  house,  nor  was  I  capable  oh'  any  movement;  but  re- 
flecting how  important  it  was  that  I  should  be  ])resent  at  what  might 
take  place  on  the  occasion,  I  nerved  myself  as  best  I  could  and  went 
in,  for  I  well  knew  all  the  entrances  and  outlets;  and  besides,  with 
the  confusion  that  in  secret  pervaded  the  house,  no  one  perceived 
me,  so,  without  being  seen,  I  found  an  opportunity  of  placing  myself 
in  the  recess  formed  by  a  window  of  the  hall  itself,  and  concealed 
by  the  ends  and  borders  of  two  tapestries,  from  between  which  I 
could,  without  being  seen,  see  all  that  took  place  in  the  room.  Who 
could  describe  the  agitation  of  heart  I  suffered  as  I  stood  there 
—  the  thoughts  that  came  to  me  —  the  reflections  that  j^assed 
through  my  mind?  They  were  such  as  can  not  be,  nor  were  it  well 
they  should  be,  told.  Suflice  it  to  say  that  the  bridegroom  entered 
the  hall  in  his  usual  dress,  without  ornament  of  any  kind ;  as 
groomsman  he  had  with  him  a  cousin  of  Luscinda's,  and  except  the 
servants  of  the  house  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  chamber.  Soon 
afterwards  Luscinda  came  out  from  an  ante-chamber,  attended  by 
her  mother  and  two  of  her  damsels,  arrayed  and  adorned  as  became 
her  rank  and  beauty,  and  in  full  festival  and  ceremonial  attire.  My 
anxiety  and  distraction  did  not  allow  me  to  observe  or  notice  par- 
ticularly what  she  wore ;  I  could  only  perceive  the  colors,  which 
were  crimson  and  white,  and  the  glitter  of  the  gems  and  jewels  on 
her  head-dress  and  apparel,  surpassed  by  the  rare  beauty  of  her 
lovely  auburn  hair  that  vying  with  the  precious  stones  and  the  light 
of  the  four  torches  that  stood  in  the  hall  shone  with  a  brighter  gleam 
than  all.  Oh  memory,  mortal  foe  of  my  jjcace  !  why  bring  before 
me  now  the  incomparable  beauty  of  that  adored  enemy  of  mine  ? 
Were  it  not  better,  cruel  memory,  to  remind  me  and  recall  what  she 
then  did,  that  stirred  by  a  wrong  so  glaring  I  may  seek,  if  not 
vengeance  now,  at  least  to  rid  myself  of  life  ?  Be  not  weary,  sirs, 
of  listening  to  these  digressions ;  my  sorrow  is  not  one  of  those 
that  can  or  should  be  told  tersely  and  briefly,  for  to  me  each  incident 
seems  to  call  for  many  words. 

To  this  the  curate  replied  that  not  only  were  tliey  not 
weary  of  listening  to  him,  but  that  the  details  he  mentioned 
interested  them  greatly,  being  of  a  kind  by  no  means  to  be 
omitted  and  deserving  of  the  same  attention  as  the  main 
story. 


222  DON    QUIXOTE. 

To  proceed,  then  (continued  Cardenio)  :  all  being  assembled  in 
the  hall,  the  priest  of  the  parisli  came  in,  and  as  he  took  the  pair  by 
the  hand  to  perform  the  requisite  ceremony,  at  the  words,  "  Will 
you,  Senora  Luseinda,  take  Seiior  Don  Fernando,  here  present,  for 
your  lawful  husband,  as  the  holy  Mother  Church  ordains  ? "  I 
thrust  my  head  and  neck  out  fi'om  between  the  tapestries,  and  with 
eager  ears  and  throbbing  heart  set  myself  to  listen  to  Luscinda's 
answer,  awaiting  in  her  reply  the  sentence  of  death  or  the  grant  of 
life.  Oh,  that  I  had  but  dared  at  that  moment  to  rush  forward  cry- 
ing aloud,  "Luseinda,  Luseinda!  have  a  cai-e  what  thou  dost; 
remember  Avhat  thou  owest  me ;  bethink  thee  thou  art  mine  and 
canst  not  be  another's ;  reflect  that  thy  utterance  of  '  Yes  '  and  the 
end  of  my  life  will  come  at  the  same  instant.  O,  treacherous  Don 
Fernando  !  robljer  of  my  glory,  death  of  my  life  !  what  wouldst 
thou?  What  seekest  thou?  Remember  that  thou  canst  not  as  a 
Christian  attain  the  object  of  thy  wishes,  for  Luseinda  is  my  bride, 
and  I  am  her  husband !  "  Fool  that  I  am  !  now  that  I  am  far  away, 
and  out  of  danger,  I  say  I  should  have  done  what  1  did  not  do :  now 
that  I  have  allowed  m}-  precious  treasure  to  be  robbed  from  me,  I 
curse  the  robber,  on  wh(nri  I  mijrht  have  taken  venijeance  had  I  as 
much  heart  for  it  as  I  have  for  bewailing  my  fate;  in  short,  as  I 
was  then  a  coward  and  a  fool,  little  wonder  is  it  if  I  am  now 
dying  shame-stricken,  remorseful,  and  mad. 

The  i)riest  stood  waiting  for  the  answer  of  Luseinda.  who  for  a 
long  time  withheld  it;  and  just  as  I  thouglit  she  was  taking  out  the 
dagger  to  save  her  honor,  or  struggling  for  words  to  make  some 
declaration  of  the  truth  on  my  behalf,  I  heard  her  say  in  a  faint  and 
feeble  voice,  "  I  will :  "  Don  Fernando  said  the  same,  and  giving  her 
the  ring  they  stood  linked  by  a  knot  that  could  never  be  loosed  The 
bridegroom  then  approached  to  embrace  his  hv\Ae ;  and  she,  i^ress- 
ing  her  hand  ui)on  her  heart,  fell  fainting  in  her  mother's  arms.  It 
only  remains  now  for  me  to  tell  you  the  state  1  was  in  when  in  that 
consent  that  I  heard  I  saw  all  my  hopes  mocked,  the  words  and  prom- 
ises of  Luseinda  proved  falsehoods,  and  the  recovery  of  the  prize  I 
had  that  instant  lost  rendered  impossible  forever.  I  stood  stupefied, 
wholly  abandoned,  it  seemed,  by  Heaven,  declared  the  enemy  of  the 
earth  that  bore  me,  the  air  refusing  me  breath  for  my  sighs,  the 
water  moisture  for  my  tears;  it  was  only  the  fire  that  gathered 
strength  so  that  my  whole  frame  glowed  with  rage  and  jealousy. 
They  were  all  thrown  into  confusion  by  Luscinda's  fainting,  and  as 
her  mother  was  unlacing  her  to  give  her  air,  a  sealed  jjaper  was  dis- 
covered in  her  bosom,  which  Don  Fernando  seized  at  once  and  be- 
gan to  read  by  the  light  of  one  of  the  torches.  As  soon  as  he  had 
n-ad  it  he  seated  himself  in  a  chair  leaning  his  cheek  on  his  hand  in 
the  attitude  of  one  in  deep  thought,  without  taking  any  part  in  the 
cfibrts  that  were  being  made  to  recover  his  bride  from  her  fainting 

Seeing  all  the  household  in  confusion,  I  ventured  to  come  out  re- 
gai'dless  whether  I  were  seen  or  not,  and  determined  if  I  were,  to  do 
some  frenzied  deed  that  would  prove  to  all  the  world  the  righteous 


CHAPTER    XXVIT.  223 

indio^nation  of  my  breast  in  the  punishment  of  the  treacherous  Don 
Fernando,  and  even  in  that  of  the  tickle  fainting  traitress.  But  my 
fate,  doubtless  reserving  me  for  greater  sorrows,  if  such  there  be,  so 
ordered  it  that  Just  then  I  had  enough  and  to  spare  of  tiiat  reason 
which  has  since  been  warning  to  me ;  and  so,  without  seeking  to  take 
vengeance  on  my  greatest  enemies  (wliich  might  have  been  easily 
taken,  as  all  thought  of  me  was  so  far  from  their  minds),  I  resolved 
to  take  it  upon  myself,  and  on  myself  to  intiict  the  pain  they  de- 
served, piu-haps  with  even  greater  severity  than  I  should  have  dealt 
out  to  them  had  I  then  slain  them;  for  sudden  pain  is  soon  over,  but 
that  which  is  protracted  by  tortures  is  ever  slaying  without  ending 
life.  Tn  a  word,  I  quitted  the  house  and  reached  that  of  the  man 
with  whom  I  had  left  n\y  mule;  1  made  him  saddle  it  for  me, 
mounted  without  bidding  him  farewell,  and  rode  out  of  the  city,  like 
another  Lot,  not  daring  to  turn  my  head  to  look  back  upon  it;  and 
when  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  open  country,  screened  by  the 
darkness  of  the  night,  and  tempted  by  the  stillness  to  give  vent  to 
my  grief  without  apprehension  or  fear  of  being  heard  or  seen,  then 
I  broke  silence  and  lifted  up  my  voice  in  maledictions  upon  Luscinda 
and  Don  Fernando,  as  if  I  could  thus  avenge  the  wrong  they  had 
done  me.  I  called  her  cruel,  ungrateful,  false,  thankless,  but  above 
all  covetous,  since  the  wealth  of  my  enemy  had  blinded  the  eyes  of 
her  affection,  and  turned  it  from  me  to  transfer  it  to  one  to  whom 
fortune  had  been  more  generous  and  liberal.  And  yet,  in  the  midst 
of  this  outburst  of  execration  and  upbraiding,  I  found  excuses  for 
her,  saying  it  was  no  wonder  that  a  young  girl  in  the  seclusion  of 
her  parents'  house,  trained  and  schooled  to  obey  them  always,  should 
have  been  ready  to  yield  to  their  wishes  when  they  offered  her  for  a 
husband  a  gentleman  of  such  distinction,  wealth,  and  noble  birth, 
that  if  she  had  refused  to  accept  him  she  would  have  been  tiiouglit 
out  of  her  senses,  or  to  have  set  her  affection  elsewhere,  a  suspicion 
injurious  to  her  fair  name  and  fame.  But  then  again,  I  said,  had  she 
declared  I  was  her  husband,  they  would  have  seen  tliat  in  choosing 
me  she  had  not  chosen  so  ill  l)ut  that  they  might  excuse  her,  for  be- 
fore Don  Fernando  had  made  his  offer,  they  themselves  could  not 
have  desired,  if  their  desires  had  been  ruled  by  reason,  a  more  eligi- 
ble husband  for  their  daughter  than  I  was ;  and  she,  before  taking 
the  last  fatal  step  of  giving  her  hand,  might  easily  have  said  that  I 
had  already  given  her  mine,  for  I  should  have  come  forward  to 
support  any  assertion  of  hei's  to  that  effect.  In  short,  I  came  to  tlie 
conclusion  that  feeble  love,  little  reflection,  great  ambition,  and  a 
craving  for  rank,  had  made  her  forget  the  words  with  which  she 
had  deceived  me,  encouraged  and  supported  by  my  firm  hopes  and 
honorable  passion. 

Thus  soliloquizing  and  agitated,  I  journeyed  onward  for  tlu;  re- 
mainder of  the  night,  and  by  daybreak  I  reached  one  of  the  [lasses 
of  these  mountains,  among  which  I  wandered  for  three  days  more 
without  taking  any  path  or  road,  until  I  came  to  some  meadows 
lying  on  I  know  not  which  side  of  the  mountains,  and  there  I  in- 
quired of  some  herdsmen  in  what  direction  the  most  rugged  part 


224  DON    QUIXOTE. 

of  the  range  lay.  They  told  me  that  it  was  in  this  quarter,  and  I  at 
once  directed  my  course  hither,  intending  to  end  my  life  here ;  but 
as  I  was  making  my  way  among  these  crags,  my  mule  dropped  dead 
through  fatigue  and  hunger,  or,  as  I  think  more  likely,  in  order  to 
have  done  with  such  a  worthless  burden  as  it  bore  in  me.  I  was  left 
on  foot,  worn  out,  famished,  without  any  one  to  help  me  or  any 
thought  of  seeking  help  ;  and  so  thus  I  lay  stretched  on  the  ground', 
how  long  I  know  not,  after  which  I  rose  up  free  from  hunger,  and 
found  beside  me  some  goatherds,  who  no  doubt  were  the  persons 
who  had  relieved  me  in  my  need,  for  they  told  me  how  they  had 
found  me,  and  how  I  had  been  uttering  ravings  that  showed  plainly 
T  had  lost  my  reason ;  and  since  then  1  am  conscious  that  I  am  not 
always  in  full  possession  of  it,  but  at  times  so  deranged  and  crazed 
that  I  do  a  thousand  mad  things,  tearing  my  clothes,  crying  aloud 
in  these  solitudes,  cursing  my  fate,  and  idly  calling  on  the  dear  name 
of  her  who  is  my  enemy,  and  only  seeking  to  end  my  life  in  lamen- 
tation ;  and  when  I  recover  my  senses  I  find  myself  so  exhausted  and 
weary  that  1  can  scarcely  move.  Most  commonly  my  dwelling  is 
the  hollow  of  a  cork  tree  large  enough  to  shelter  this  miserable  body  ; 
the  herdsmen  and  goatherds  who  fi'equent  these  mountains,  moved 
by  compassion,  furnisli  me  with  food,  leaving  it  by  tiie  wayside  or 
on  the  rocks,  where  they  think  I  may  perhaps  pass  and  find  it ;  and 
so,  even  though  I  may  be  then  out  of  my  senses,  the  wants  of  nature 
teach  me  what  is  required  to  sustain  me,  and  make  me  crave  it  and 
eager  to  take  it.  At  other  times,  so  they  tell  me  when  they  find  me 
in  a  rational  mood,  I  sally  out  upon  the  road,  and  though  they  would 
gladly  give  it  me,  I  snatch  food  by  force  from  the  shepherds  bringing  it 
from  the  village  to  their  huts.  Thus  do  I  pass  the  wretched  life  that 
remains  to  me,  until  it  be  Heaven's  will  to  bring  it  to  a  close,  or  so  to 
order  my  memory  that  I  no  longer  recollect  the  beauty  or  treacheiy 
of  Luscinda,  or  the  wrong  done  me  by  Don  Fernando ;  for  if  it  will 
do  this  without  depriving  me  of  life,  I  will  turn  m}^  thoughts  into 
some  better  channel ;  if  not,  I  can  only  implore  it  to  have  full  mercy 
on  my  soul,  for  in  myself  I  feel  no  power  or  strength  to  release  my 
body  from  this  strait  in  which  I  have  of  my  own  accord  chosen  to 
place  it. 

Such,  sirs,  is  the  dismal  story  of  my  misfortune :  say  if  it  be  one 
that  can  be  told  with  less  emotion  than  you  have  seen  in  me ;  and  do 
not  trouble  youi'selves  with  urging  or  pressing  upon  me  what  reason 
suggests  as  likely  to  serve  for  my  relief,  for  it  will  avail  me  as  much 
as  the  medicine  prescribed  by  a  wise  physician  avails  the  sick  man 
who  will  not  take  it.  I  have  no  wish  for  health  without  Luscinda; 
and  since  it  is  her  jjleasure  to  be  another's,  when  she  is  or  should  be 
mine,  let  it  be  mine  to  be  a  prey  to  misery  when  I  might  have  en- 
joyed happiness.  She  by  her  fickleness  strove  to  make  my  ruin  irre- 
trievable ;  I  will  strive  to  gratify  her  wishes  by  seeking  destruction  ; 
and  it  will  show  generations  to  come  that  I  alone  was  deprived  of 
that  of  which  all  others  in  misfoi'tune  have  a  suijerabundance,  for  to 
them  the  impossibility  of  being  consoled  is  itself  a  consolation,  while 
to  me  it  is  the  cause  of  greater  sorrows  and  sufierings,  for  I  think  that 
even  in  death  there  will  not  be  an  end  of  them, 


CHAPTER    XXVIII.  225 

Here  Cardenio  brought  to  a  close  his  long  discourse  and 
story,  as  full  of  misfortune  as  it  was  of  love;  but  just  as  the 
curate  was  going  to  address  some  words  of  comfort  to  him,  he 
was  stopped  by  a  voice  that  reached  his  ear,  saying  in  melan- 
choly tones  what  will  be  told  in  the  Fourth  Part  of  this  narra- 
tive :  for  at  this  point  the  sage  and  sagacious  historian,  Cid 
Hamet  Benengeli,  brought  the  third  to  a  conclusion.^ 


CHAPTEK  XXVIII. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  STRANGE  AND  DELIGHTFUL  ADVENT- 
URE THAT  BEFELL  THE  CURATE  AND  THE  BARBER  IN  THE 
SAME    SIERRA. 

Happy  and  fortunate  were  the  times  when  that  most  daring 
knight  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  was  sent  into  the  world  ;  for 
by  reason  of  his  having  formed  a  resolution  so  honorable  as 
that  of  seeking  to  revive  and  restore  to  the  world  the  long-lost 
and  almost  defunct  order  of  knight-errantry,  we  now  enjoy  in 
this  age  of  ours,  so  poor  in  light  entertainment,  not  only  the 
charm  of  his  veracious  history,  but  also  of  the  tales  and  epi- 
sodes contained  in  it,  which  are,  in  a  measure,  no  less  pleasing, 
ingenious,  and  truthful,  than  the  history  itself ;  ^  which,  re- 
suming its  thread,  carded,  spun,  and  wound,  relates  that  just 
as  the  curate  was  going  to  offer  consolation  to  Cardenio,  he  was 
interrupted  by  a  voice  that  fell  vipon  his  ear  saying  in  plaintive 
tones : 

"  0  God !  is  it  possible  I  have  found  a  place  that  may  serve 
as  a  secret  grave  for  the  weary  load  of  this  body  that  I  support 
so  unwillingly  ?  If  the  solitude  these  mountains  })romise  de- 
ceive me  not,  it  is  so ;  ah !  woe  is  me !  how  much  more  gratefid 
to  my  nund  will  be  the  society  of  these  rocks  and  brakes  that 
permit  me  to  complain  of  my  misfortune  to  Heaven,  than  that 
of  any  human  being,  for  there  is  none  on  earth  to  look  to  for 
counsel  in  doubt,  comfort  in  sorrow,  or  relief  in  distress !  " 

All  this  was  heard  distinctly  by  the  curate  and  those  with 

^  See  the  note  to  chapter  viii.  page  53,  on  the  original  division  into 
parts. 

'  This  looks  as  if  some  doubt  had  crossed  the  mind  of  Cervantes  as  to 
the  propriety  of  introducing  tliese  tales  ;.nil  episodes. 
Vol.  I.—  15 


226  DON    QUIXOTE. 

him,  and  as  it  seemed  to  them  to  be  uttered  close  by,  as  indeed 
it  was,  they  got  up  to  look  for  the  speaker,  and  before  they  had 
gone  twenty  paces  they  discovered  behind  a  rock,  seated  at  the 
foot  of  an  ash  tree,  a  youth  in  the  dress  of  a  peasant,  whose 
face  they  were  unable  at  the  moment  to  see  as  he  was  leaning 
forward.  Ixithiug  his  feet  in  the  brook  that  flowed  past.  They 
approached  so  silently  that  he  did  not  perceive  them,  being  fully 
occupied  in  l)athing  his  feet,  which  were  so  fair  that  they  looked 
like  two  })ieces  of  shining  crystal  embedded  among  the  stones 
of  the  brook.  The  whiteness  and  beauty  of  these  feet  struck 
them  with  surprise,  for  they  did  not  seem  to  have  been  made 
to  crush  clods  or  to  follow  the  plough  and  the  oxen  as  their 
owner's  dress  suggested ;  and  so,  finding  they  had  not  been 
noticed,  the  curate,  who  was  in  front,  made  a  sign  to  the  other 
two  to  conceal  themselves  behind  some  fragments  of  rock  that 
lay  there ;  which  they  did,  observing  closely  what  the  youth 
was  about.  He  had  on  a  loose  double-skirted  gray  jacket  bound 
tight  to  his  body  with  a  white  cloth ;  he  wore  besides  breeches 
and  gaiters  of  gray  cloth,  and  on  his  head  a  gray  montera ;  ^  and 
he  had  the  gaiters  turned  up  as  far  as  the  middle  of  the  leg, 
which  verily  seemed  to  be  of  pure  alabaster. 

As  soon  as  he  had  done  bathing  his  beautiful  feet,  he  wiped 
them  with  a  towel  he  took  from  under  the  montera,  on  taking 
off  which  l;e  raised  his  face,  and  those  who  were  watching  him 
had  an  o})portunity  of  seeing  a  beauty  so  exquisite  that  Car- 
denio  said  to  the  curate  in  a  whisper,  ''  As  this  is  not  Luscincla, 
it  is  no  human  creature  but  a  divine  being." 

The  youth  then  took  off  the  montera,  and  shaking  his  head 
from  side  to  side  there  broke  loose  and  spread  out  a  mass  of 
hair  that  the  beams  of  the  sun  might  have  envied ;  by  this 
they  knew  that  what  had  seemed  a  peasant  was  a  lovely 
woman,  nay  the  most  beautiful  the  eyes  of  two  of  them  had 
ever  beheld,  or  even  Cardenio's  if  they  had  not  seen  and  known 
Luscinda,  for  he  afterwards  declared  that  only  the  beauty  of 
Luscinda  coidd  compare  with  this.  The  long  auburn  tresses 
not  only  covered  her  shoulders,  but  such  was  their  length  and 
abundance,  concealed  her  all  round  beneath  their  masses,  so 
that  except  the  feet  nothing  of  her  form  was  visible.  She 
now  used  her  hands  as  a  comb,  and  if  her  feet  had  seemed  like 
bits  of  crystal  in  the  water,  her  hands  looked  like  pieces  of 

'  A  cloth  cap,  something  like  a  travelling  cap  in  make,  worn  by  the 
peasants  of  Central  Spain. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII.  227 

driven  snow  among  her  locks  ;  all  wliicli  increased  not  only  the 
admiration  of  the  three  beholders,  but  their  anxiety  to  learn 
who  she  was.  With  this  object  they  resolved  to  show  them- 
selves, and  at  the  stir  they  made  in  getting  upon  their  feet  the 
fair  damsel  raised  her  head,  and  parting  her  hair  from  before 
her  eyes  with  both  hands,  she  looked  to  see  who  had  made  the 
noise,  and  the  instant  she  perceived  them  she  started  to  her 
feet,  and  without  waiting  to  put  on  her  shoes  or  gather  up  hei- 
hair,  hastily  snatched  up  a  bundle  as  though  of  clothes  that 
she  had  beside  her,  and,  scared  and  alarmed,  endeavored  to 
take  flight ;  but  before  she  had  gone  six  paces  she  fell  to  the 
ground,  her  delicate  feet  being  unable  to  bear  the  roughness 
of  the  stones ;  seeing  which,  the  three  hastened  towards  her, 
and  the  curate  addressing  her  first  said,  '•  Stay,  seiiora,  who- 
ever you  may  be,  for  those  wlunn  you  see  here  only  desire  to 
be  of  service  to  you ;  you  have  no  need  to  attempt  a  flight  so 
heedless,  for  neither  can  your  feet  bear  it,  nor  we  allow  it." 

Taken  by  surprise  and  bewildered,  she  made  no  reply  to 
these  words.  They,  hoAvever,  came  towards  her,  and  the 
curate  taking  her  hand  went  on  to  say,  "What  your  dress 
would  hide,  seilora,  is  made  known  to  us  by  your  hair ;  a  clear 
proof  that  it  can  be  no  trifling  cause  that  has  disguised  your 
beauty  in  a  garb  so  unworthy  of  it,  and  sent  it  into  solitudes 
like  these  where  we  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  find  you,  if 
not  to  relieve  your  distress,  at  least  to  offer  you  comfort ;  for 
no  distress,  as  long  as  life  lasts,  can  be  so  oppressive  or  reach 
such  a  height  as  to  make  the  sufferer  refuse  to  listen  to  com- 
fort offered  with  good  intention.  And  so,  senora,  or  senor,  or 
whatever  you  prefer  to  be,  dismiss  the  fears  that  our  appear- 
ance has  caused  you  and  make  us  acquainted  with  your  good 
or  evil  fortunes,  for  from  all  of  us  together,  or  from  each  one 
of  us,  you  will  receive  sympathy  in  your  trouble." 

While  the  curate  was  speaking,  the  disguised  damsel  stood 
as  if  spell-bound,  looking  at  them  without  opening  her  lips  or 
uttering  a  word,  just  like  a  village  rustic  to  whom  something 
strange  that  he  has  never  seen  before  has  been  suddenly 
shown ;  but  on  the  curate  addressing  some  further  words  to 
the  same  effect  to  her,  sighing  deeply  she  broke  silence  and 
said,  "  Since  the  solitude  of  these  inountains  has  been  unable 
to  conceal  me,  and  the  escape  of  my  dishevelled  tresses  will 
not  allow  my  tongue  to  deal  in  falsehoods,  it  would  be  idle  for 
me  now  to  make  any  further  pretence  of  what,  if  you  were  to 


228  DON    QUIXOTE. 

believe  me,  you  would  believe  more  out  of  courtesy  than  for 
any  other  reason.  This  being  so,  I  say  I  thank  you,  sirs, 
for  the  offer  you  made  me,  which  places  me  under  the  obliga- 
tion of  complying  with  the  request  you  have  made  of  me ; 
though  I  fear  the  account  I  shall  give  you  of  my  misfortunes 
will  excite  in  you  as  much  concern  as  compassion,  for  you  will 
be  unable  to  suggest  anything  to  remedy  them  or  any  consola- 
tion to  alleviate  them.  However,  that  my  honor  may  not  be 
left  a  mattter  of  doubt  in  your  minds,  now  that  you  have  dis- 
covered me  to  be  a  woman,  and  see  that  I  am  young,  alone, 
and  in  this  dress,  things  that  taken  together  or  separately 
would  be  enough  to  destroy  any  good  name,  I  feel  bound  to 
tell  what  I  would  willingly  keep  secret  if  I  could." 

All  this  she  who  was  now  seen  to  be  a  lovely  woman  delivered 
without  any  hesitation,  with  so  much  ease  and  in  so  sweet  a 
voice  that  they  were  not  less  charmed  l)y  her  intelligence  than 
by  her  beauty,  and  as  they  again  repeated  their  offers  and  en- 
treaties to  her  to  fulfil  her  jjromise,  she  without  further  press- 
ing, first  modestly  covering  her  feet  and  gathering  up  her  hair, 
seated  herself  on  a  stone  with  the  three  placed  around  her, 
and,  after  an  effort  to  restrain  some  tears  that  came  to  her  eyes, 
in  a  clear  and  steady  voice  began  her  story  thus : 

In  this  Andahisia  there  is  a  town  from  which  a  duke  takes  a  title 
which  makes  him  one  of  those  that  are  called  Grandees  of  Spain. 
This  nobleman  has  two  sons,  the  elder  heir  to  his  dignity  and  ap- 
parently to  his  good  qualities  ;  the  younger  heir  to  I  know  not  what, 
unless  it  be  the  treachery  of  Vellido  and  the  falsehood  of  (ianelon.' 
M}'  pai-ents  are  this  lord's  vassals,  lowly  in  origin,  but  so  wealthy 
that  if  birth  had  conferred  as  much  on  them  as  fortune,  they  would 
have  had  notliing  left  to  desire,  nor  should  I  have  had  reason  to  fear 
trouble  like  that  in  which  I  find  myself  now;  for  it  may  be  that  my 
ill  Ibrtune  came  of  theirs  in  not  having  been  nobly  born.  It  is  true 
they  are  not  so  low  that  they  have  any  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  their 
condition,  but  neither  are  they  so  high  as  to  I'emove  from  my  mind 
the  impression  that  my  mishap  comes  of  their  huml)le  birth.  They 
are,  in  short,  peasants,  plain  homely  people,  without  any  taint  of 
disreputable  blood,  and,  as  the  saying  is,  old  rusty  Christians,-  but 
so  rich  ihat  by  their  wealth  and  free-handed  way  of  life  they  are 
coming  b}'  degrees  to  be  considered  gentlefolk  by  birth,  and  even 
by  position; 3  though  the  wealth  and  nobility  they  thought  most  of 

•  See  Note  1,  p.  2LS. 

^  Cristianos  viejos  rancios  :  rancio  is  applied  to  anytliing,  like  bacon  or 
wine,  that  has  acquired  a  peculiar  flavor  from  long  keeping. 

*  Literally,  "  hidalgos  and  even  caballeros  :  "  "  hidalgo  "  being  a  gen- 
tleman by  birth,  "  caballero  "  one  by  social  position  or  standing. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII.  229 

was  haviiijj:  me  for  their  daughter;  and  as  they  have  no  other  child 
to  make  their  heir,  and  are  affectionate  parents,  I  was  one  of  the 
most  indulged  daughters  that  ever  parents  indulged. 

1  was  the  mirror  in  which  they  beheld  themselves,  the  statf  of 
their  old  age,  and  the  object  in  which,  with  submission  to  Heaven, 
all  their  wishes  centred,  and  mine  were  in  accordance  with  theirs, 
for  I  knew  their  worth ;  and  as  I  was  mistress  of  their  hearts,  so 
was  I  also  of  tlieir  possessions.  Through  me  they  engaged  or  dis- 
niisscul  their  servants ;  through  my  hands  passed  the  accounts  and  re- 
turns of  what  was  sown  and  reaped ;  the  oil-mills,  the  wine-presses, 
the  count  of  tlie  flocks  and  herds,  the  beehives,  all  in  short  tliat  a 
rich  farmer  like  my  father  has  or  can  have,  I  had  under  my  care,  and 
I  acted  as  steward  and  mistress  with  an  assiduity  on  my  part  and 
satisfaction  on  theirs  that  I  can  not  well  describe  to  you.  The  leisure 
hours  left  to  me  alter  I  had  given  the  requisite  orders  to  the  shep- 
herds, head  men,  and  laborers,  I  passed  in  such  employments  as 
are  not  only  allowable  but  necessary  for  young  girls,  those  that  the 
needle,  embroidery  cushion,  and  spinning  wheel  usually  atibrd,  and 
if  to  refresh  my  mind  I  quitted  them  for  a  while,  I  found  recreation 
in  reading  some  devotional  book  or  playing  the  harp,  for  experience 
taught  me  that  music  soothes  the  troubled  mind  and  relieves  weari- 
ness of  spirit.  Such  was  the  life  I  led  in  my  parents'  house,  and  if 
I  have  depicted  it  thus  minutely,  it  is  not  out  of  ostentation,  or  to 
let  you  know  tliat  I  am  rich,  but  that  you  may  see  how,  without  any 
fault  of  mine,  I  have  fallen  from  the  happy  condition  I  have  de- 
scribed, to  the  misery  I  am  in  at  present.  The  truth  is,  that  while  I 
was  leading  tliis  busy  life,  in  a  retirement  that  might  compare  with 
that  of  a  monastery,  and  unseen  as  T  thought  by  any  except  the 
servants  of  the  house  (for  wiien  I  went  to  Mass  it  was  so  early  in  the 
morning,  and  I  was  so  closely  attended  by  my  mother  and  the  women 
of  the  household,  and  so  thickly  veiled  and  so  shy,  that  my  eyes 
scarcely  saw  more  ground  than  I  trod  on),  in  sjjite  of  all  this,  the 
eyes  of  love,  or  idleness,  more  properly  speaking,  that  the  lynx's 
can  not  rival,  discovered  me,  with  the  help  of  the  assiduity  of  Don 
Fernando ;  for  that  is  the  name  of  the  younger  son  of  the  duke  I 
told  you  of. 

The  moment  the  speaker  mentioned  the  name  of  Don  Fer- 
nando, Cardenio  changed  color  and  broke  into  a  sweat,  with 
such  signs  of  emotion  that  the  curate  and  the  barber,  who 
observed  it,  feared  that  one  of  the  mad  fits  wdiich  they  heard 
attacked  him  sometimes  was  coming  upon  him ;  but  Cardenio 
showed  no  further  agitation  and  remained  quiet,  regarding  the 
peasant  girl  with  fixed  attention,  for  he  began  to  suspect  who 
she  was.  She,  however,  without  noticing  the  excitement  of 
Cardenio,  continuing  her  story,  went  on  to  say : 

And  they  had  hardly  discovered  me,  when,  as  he  owned  after- 
wards, he  was  smitten  with  a  violent  love  for  me,  as  the  manner  in 


230  DON    QUIXOTE. 

which  it  disphiyed  itself  plainly  showed.  But  to  shorten  the  long 
recital  of  my  woes,  I  will  pass  over  in  silence  all  the  artifices  em- 
ployed by  Don  Fernando  for  declaring  his  passion  for  me.  He 
bribed  all  the  household,  he  gave  and  offered  gifts  and  presents  to 
ni}'  parents  ;  every  day  was  liJie  a  holiday  or  a  merrymaking  in  our 
street;  by  night  no  one  could  sleep  for  the  music;  the  love  letters 
that  used  to  come  to  my  hand,  no  one  knew  how,  were  innumerable, 
full  of  tender  pleadings  and  pledges,  containing  more  promises  and 
oaths  than  there  were  letters  in  them;  all  which  not  only  did  not 
soften  me,  but  hardened  my  heart  against  liim,  as  if  he  had  been  my 
mortal  enemy,  and  as  if  everything  he  did  to  make  me  yield  were 
done  with  the  opposite  intention.  Not  that  the  higli-bred  Ijearing  of 
Don  Fernando  was  disagreeable  to  me,  or  that  I  found  his  importu- 
nities wearisome  ;  for  it  gave  me  a  certain  sort  of  satisfaction  to  find 
myself  so  sought  and  prized  b}'  a  gentleman  of  such  distinction,  and 
I  was  not  displeased  at  seeing  my  praises  in  his  letters  (for  however 
ugly  we  women  may  be,  it  seems  to  me  it  always  pleases  us  to  hear 
ourselves  called  beautiful)  ;  but  tiiat  my  own  sense  of  right  was 
opposed  to  all  this,  as  well  as  the  repeated  advice  of  my  parents, 
who  now  very  plainl}'  perceivcid  Don  Fernando's  piu-jjose,  for  he 
cared  very  little  if  all  the  world  knew  it.  They  told  me  they  trusted 
and  confided  their  honor  and  good  name  to  my  virtue  and  rectitude 
alone,  and  bade  me  consider  the  disparity  between  Don  Fernando 
and  myself,  from  which  I  might  conclude  that  his  intentions,  what- 
ever he  might  say  to  the  contrary,  had  for  their  aim  his  own  pleas- 
ure rather  than  ni}'  advantage  ;  and  if  I  were  at  all  desirous  of 
opposing  an  obstacle  to  his  unreasonable  suit,  they  were  ready,  they 
said,  to  marry  me  at  once  to  any  one  I  preferred,  either  among  the 
leading  people  of  our  own  town,  or  of  any  of  those  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  for  with  their  wealth  and  my  good  name,  a  match  might  be 
looked  for  in  any  quarter.  This  otter,  and  their  sound  advice, 
strengthened  my  resolution,  and  I  never  gave  Don  Fernando  a  word 
in  reply  that  could  hold  out  to  him  any  hope  of  success,  however 
remote. 

All  this  caution  of  mine,  which  he  iiuist  have  taken  for  coyness, 
had  apjiarently  the  eftect  of  increasing  his  wanton  appetite  —  for  that 
is  the  name  1  give  to  his  passion  for  me ;  had  it  been  what  he  de- 
clared it  to  be,  you  would  not  know  of  it  now,  because  there  would 
have  been  no  occasion  to  tell  you  of  it.  At  length  he  learned  that 
my  parents  were  contemplating  marriage  for  me  in  order  to  j^ut  an 
end  to  liis  hopes  of  obtaining  possession  of  me,  or  at  least  to  secure 
additional  protectors  to  watch  over  me,  and  this  intelligence  or  sus- 
picion made  him  act  as  you  shall  hear.  One  night,  as  I  was  in  my 
chamber  with  no  other  companion  than  a  damsel  who  waited  on  me, 
with  the  doors  carefully  locked  lest  my  honor  should  be  imperilled 
through  any  carelessness,  I  know  not  nor  can  I  conceive  how  it  hap- 
pened, but,  with  all  this  seclusion  and  these  precautions,  and  in  the 
solitude  and  silence  of  my  retirement,  I  found  him  standing  before 
me,  a  vision  that  so  astounded  me  that  it  deprived  my  eyes  of  sight, 
and  my  tongue  of  speech.     1  had  no  power  to  utter  a  cry,  nor,  I 


CHAPTER    XXVIII.  231 

think,  did  he  give  me  time  to  utter  one,  as  he  immediately  ap- 
proached me,  and  taking  me  in  his  arms  (for,  overwhehiied  as  I  was, 
I  was  jDowerless,  I  say,  to  help  myself),  he  began  to  make  such  pro- 
fessions to  me,  that  1  know  not  how  falsehood  could  have  had  the 
jjower  of  dressing  them  up  to  seem  so  like  truth ;  antl  the  traitor 
contrived  that  his  tears  should  vouch  for  his  words,  and  his  sighs  for 
his  sincerity. 

I,  a  poor  young  creature,  the  only  daughter  of  the  house,  ill  versed 
in  such  things,  began,  I  know  not  how,  to  think  all  these  lying  pro- 
testations true,  though  without  being  moved  by  his  sighs  and  tears 
to  anything  more  than  pure  compassion  ;  and  so,  as  the  first  feeling 
of  bewilderment  passed  away,  and  I  began  in  some  degree  to  re- 
cover myself,  I  said  to  him  with  more  courage  than  1  thought  I 
could  have  possessed,  "  If,  as  I  am  now  in  your  arms,  senor,  I  were 
in  the  claws  of  a  fierce  lion,  and  my  deliverance  could  be  procured 
by  doing  or  saying  anything  to  the  prejudice  of  my  honor,  it  would 
no  more  Ije  in  my  power  to  do  it  or  say  it,  than  it  would  be  possible 
that  what  was  should  not  have  been ;  so  then,  if  you  hold  my  body 
clasped  in  your  arms,  I  hold  my  soul  secured  by  virtuous  intentions, 
very  different  from  yours,  as  you  will  see  if  you  attempt  to  carry 
them  into  effect  by  foi-ce.  I  am  your  vassal,  l^ut  I  am  not  your 
slave ;  your  nobility  neither  has  nor  should  have  any  right  to  dis- 
honor or  degrade  my  humble  birth;  and  low-born  peasant  as  I  am, 
I  have  my  self-respect  as  much  as  you,  a  lord  and  gentleman  :  with 
me  your  violence  will  be  to  no  purpose,  your  wealth  will  have  no 
weight,  your  words  will  have  no  power  to  deceive  me,  nor  your 
sighs  or  tears  to  soften  me  :  were  I  to  see  any  of  the  things  I  sj^eak 
of  in  him  whom  my  parents  gave  me  as  a  husljand,  his  will  should 
be  mine,  and  mine  should  be  bounded  by  his ;  and  my  honor  being 
preserved  even  though  mj^  inclinations  were  not  gratified,  I  would 
willingly  yield  him  what  you,  senor,  would  now  obtain  by  force ; 
and  this  I  say  lest  you  should  suppose  that  any  but  my  lawful  hus- 
band shall  ever  win  anything  of  me."  —  "  If  that,"  said  this  disloyal 
gentleman,  "be  the  only  scruple  you  feel,  fairest  Dorothea"  (for 
that  is  the  name  of  this  unhappy  being),  "see  here  I  give  you  my 
hand  to  be  yours,  and  let  Heaven,  from  which  nothing  is  hid,  and 
this  image  of  Our  Lady  you  have  here,  be  witnesses  of  this 
pledge." 

When  Cardenio  heard,  her  vSay  she  was  called  Dorothea,  he 
showed  fresh  agitation  and  felt  convinced  of  the  truth  of  his 
former  suspicion,  but  he  was  unwilling  to  interrupt  the  story, 
and  wished  to  hear  the  end  of  what  he  already  all  but  knew, 
so  he  merely  said,  '<  What !  is  Dorothea  your  name,  senora  ? 
I  have  heard  of  another  of  the  same  name  who  can  perha})S 
match  your  misfortunes.  But  proceed ;  by-and-by  I  may  tell 
you  something  that  will  astonish  you  as  much  as  it  will  excite 
your  compassion." 


232  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Dorothea  was  struck  by  Cardenio's  words  as  well  as  by  bis 
strange  and  miserable  attire,  and  begged  him  if  he  knew  any- 
thing concerning  her  to  tell  it  to  her  at  once,  for  if  fortune 
had  left  her  any  blessing  it  was  courage  to  bear  whatever 
calamity  might  fall  upon  her,  as  she  felt  sure  in  her  own  mind 
that  none  could  reach  her  capable  of  increasing  in  any  degree 
what  she  endured  already. 

'*  I  would  not  let  the  occasion  pass,  senora,"  replied  Cardenio, 
"of  telling  you  what  I  think,  if  what  I  suspect  were  the  truth, 
but  so  far  there  has  been  no  o})portunity,  nor  is  it  of  any  im- 
portance to  you  to  know  it." 

^'  Be  it  as  it  may  !  "  replied  Dorothea.  "  To  go  on  with  my 
story :  " 

Don  Fernando,  taking  an  image  that  stood  in  the  chamber,  placed 
it  as  a  witness  of  our  betrothal,  and  with  the  most  binding  words 
and  extravagant  oaths  gave  me  his  promise  to  become  my  husband  ; 
though  l)efore  he  had  made  an  end  of  pledging  iiimself  I  bade  him 
consider  well  what  he  was  doino",  and  think  of  the  ang-er  his  father 
would  feel  at  seeing  him  married  to  a  peasant  girl  and  one  of  his 
vassals;  I  told  him  not  to  let  my  beauty,  such  as  it  was,  blind  him, 
for  that  was  not  enough  to  furnish  an  excuse  for  his  transgression  ; 
and  if  in  the  love  he  bore  me  he  wished  to  do  me  any  kindness,  it 
Avould  be  to  leave  my  lot  to  follow  its  course  at  the  level  my  condi- 
tion required;  for  marriages  so  unequal  never  brought  happiness, 
nor  did  they  continue  long  to  atlbrd  the  enjoyment  they  began  with. 

All  this  that  I  have  now  repeated  \  said  to  him,  and  nmch  more 
which  I  cannot  recollect;  but  it  had  no  effect  in  inducing  him  to 
forego  his  pui'pose ;  he  who  has  no  intention  of  jiaying  does  not 
trouble  himself  about  difficulties  when  he  is  sti'iking  the  bargain. 
At  the  same  time  I  argued  the  matter  briefly  in  my  own  mind,  say- 
ing to  myself,  "I  shall  not  be  the  first  wiio  has  risen  thi-ough 
marriage  from  a  lowly  to  a  lofty  station,  nor  will  Don  Fernando  be 
the  first  vvliom  beaut}'  or,  as  is  more  likely,  a  blind  attachment,  has 
led  to  mate  himself  below  his  rank.  Then,  since  I  am  introducing 
no  new  usage  or  practice,  I  may  as  well  avail  myself  of  the  honor 
that  chance  ofters  me,  for  even  though  his  inclination  for  me  should 
not  outlast  the  attainment  of  his  wishes,  I  shall  be,  after  all,  his  wife 
before  God.  And  if  I  strive  to  repel  him  by  scorn,  I  can  see  that, 
fair  means  failing,  he  is  in  a  mood  to  use  force,  and  I  shall  be  left 
ilishonored  and  without  any  means  of  proving  my  innocence  to  those 
who  can  not  know  how  innocently  I  have  come  to  be  in  this  position  ; 
for  what  arguments  would  jjersuade  my  parents  and  others  that  this 
gentleman  entered  my  chamber  without  my  consent?  " 

All  these  questions  and  answers  passed  through  my  mind  in  a 
moment;  but  the  oaths  of  Don  Fernando,  the  witnesses  he  appealed 
to,  the  tears  he  shed,  and  lastly  the  charms  of  his  person  and  his 


CHAPTER    XXV III.  238 

high-bred  grace,  which,  accompanied  by  such  signs  oi"  genuine  love, 
might  well  have  conquered  a  heart  even  more  free  and  coy  than 
mine  —  tliese  were  the  things  tliat  more  than  all  began  to  iuHuence 
me  and  lead  me  unawares  to  ray  ruin.  I  called  my  waiting-maid  to 
me,  that  there  might  be  a  witness  on  earth  besides  those  in  heaven, 
and  again  Don  Fernando  renewed  and  repeated  his  oaths,  invoked  as 
witnesses  fresh  saints  in  addition  to  the  former  ones,  called  doAvn 
upon  himself  a  thousand  curses  hereafter  should  he  fail  to  keep  his 
promise,  shed  more  tears,  redoubled  his  sigiis  ant!  pressed  me  closer 
in  his  arms,  from  wliicli  he  liad  never  allowed  me  to  escape ;  and  so 
I  was  left  by  my  maid,  and  ceased  to  be  one,  and  he  became  a  traitor 
and  a  j^erjured  man. 

The  day  which  followed  the  night  of  ray  misfortune  did  not  coine 
so  quickly,  T  imagine,  as  Don  Fernando  wished,  for  \vhcn  desire 
had  attained  its  object,  the  greatest  pleasure  is  to  fly  from  the 
scene  of  pleasure.  I  say  so  because  Don  Fernando  made  all  haste 
to  leave  me,  and  by  the  adroitness  of  my  maid,  who  was  indeed 
the  one  who  had  admitted  him,  gained  the  street  before  daybreak ; 
but  on  taking  leave  of  me  he  told  me,  though  not  with  as  much 
earnestness  and  fervor  as  when  he  came,  that  I  might  rest  assured 
of  his  faith  and  of  the  sanctity  and  sincerity  of  his  oatlis ;  and 
to  confirm  his  words  he  drew  a  rich  ring  oft'  Iris  finger  and  placed  it 
upon  mine.  He  then  took  his  departure  and  I  was  left,  I  know  not 
whether  sorrowful  or  happy ;  all  1  can  say  is,  I  was  left  agitated  and 
troubled  in  mind  and  almost  bewildered  by  what  had  taken  place, 
and  I  had  not  the  spirit,  or  else  it  did  not  occur  to  me,  to  chide  ray 
maid  for  the  treachery  she  had  been  guilty  of  in  concealing  Don 
Fernando  in  ray  chamber;  for  as  yet  I  was  unable  to  make  up  my 
mind  wdiether  what  had  befallen  rae  was  for  good  or  evil.  I  told 
Don  Fernando  at  parting,  that  as  I  was  now  his,  he  might  see  me  on 
other  nights  in  the  same  way,  until  it  should  be  his  pleasure  to  let 
the  matter  become  known  ;  but,  except  the  following  night,  he  came 
no  raore,  nor  tor  more  than  a  month  could  1  catch  a  glimpse  of  him 
in  the  sti'eet  or  in  church,  while  I  wearied  myself  with  watching  for 
one;  although  I  knew  he  was  in  the  town,  and  almost  every  day 
went  out  hunting,  a  pastime  he  was  very  fond  of.  1  remember  well 
how  sad  and  dreary  those  days  and  hours  were  to  rae ;  1  rememljer 
well  how  I  began  to  doubt  as  they  went  by,  and  even  to  lose  confi- 
dence in  the  faith  of  Don  Fernando;  and  I  remember,  too,  how  my 
maid  heard  those  words  in  reproof  of  her  audacity  that  she  had  not 
heard  before,  and  how  I  was  forced  to  put  a  constraint  on  my  tears 
and  on  the  expression  of  my  countenance,  not  to  give  ray  parents 
cause  to  ask  me  why  1  was  so  melancholy,  and  drive  me  to  invent 
falsehoods  in  reply.  But  all  tliis  was  suddenly  brought  to  an  end, 
for  the  time  came'  when  all  such  considerations  were  disregarded, 
and  there  was  no  further  question  of  honor,  when  my  patience  gave 
way  and  the  secret  of  my  heart  became  known  abroad.  The  reason 
was,  that  a  few  days  later  it  was  reported  in  the  town  that  \)o\\ 
Fernando  had  been  married  in  a  neighboring  city  to  a  maiden  of  rare 
beauty,   the  daughter  of  parents  of   distinguished  position,   though 


234  DON    QUIXOTE. 

not  so  rich  that  her  portion  would  entitle  her  to  look  for  so  brilliant 
a  match ;  it  was  said,  too,  that  her  name  was  Luscinda,  and  that  at 
the  betrothal  some  strange  things  had  happened. 

Cardenio  heard  the  name  of  Luscinda,  but  lie  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  bit  his  lips,  bent  his  brows,  and  before  long  two 
streams  of  tears  escaped  from  his  eyes.  Dorothea,  however, 
did  not  interrupt  her  story,  but  went  on  in  these  words  : 

This  sad  intelligence  reached  ray  ears,  and,  insteadof  being  struck 
with  a  chill,  with  such  wrath  and  fury  did  my  heart  burn  that  1 
scarcely  retained  myself  from  rushing  out  into  the  streets,  crying 
aloud  and  proclaiming  openly  the  perfidy  and  treachery  of  which  I 
was  the  victim ;  but  this  transport  of  rage  was  for  the  time  checked 
by  a  resolution  I  formed,  to  be  carried  out  the  same  night,  and  that 
was  to  assume  this  dress,  which  I  got  from  a  servant  of  my  father's, 
one  of  the  zagals,  as  they  are  called  in  farmhouses,  to  whom  I  con- 
fided the  whole  of  my  misfortune,  and  whom  I  entreated  to  accom- 
pany me  to  the  city  where  I  heard  my  enemy  was.  He,  though  he 
remonstrated  with  me  for  my  boldness,  and  condemned  my  resolu- 
tion, when  he  saw  me  bent  upon  my  purpose,  offered  to  bear  my 
company,  as  he  said,  to  the  end  of  the  world.  I  at  once  packed  up 
in  a  linen  pillow-case  a  woman's  dress,  and  some  jewels  and  money 
to  provide  for  emergencies,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  without 
letting  my  treacherous  maid  know,  I  sallied  forth  from  the  house, 
accontpanied  by  my  servant  and  abundant  anxieties,  and  on  foot  set 
out  for  the  city,  but  borne  as  it  were  on  wings  by  my  eagerness  to 
reach  it,  if  not  to  prevent  what  I  presumed  to  be  already  done,  at 
least  to  call  upon  Don  Fernando  to  tell  me  with  what  conscience  he 
had  done  it.  I  reached  my  destination  in  two  days  and  a  half, 
and  on  entering  the  city  inquired  for  the  house  of  Luscinda's  parents. 
The  first  person  I  asked  gave  me  more  in  reply  than  I  sought  to 
know ;  he  showed  me  the  house,  and  told  me  all  that  had  occurred  at 
the  betrothal  of  the  daughter  of  the  family,  an  affair  of  such  notoriety 
in  the  city  that  it  was  the  talk  of  every  knot  of  idlers  in  the  street. 
lie  said  that  on  the  night  of  Don  Fernando's  betrothal  with  Luscinda, 
as  soon  as  she  had  consented  to  be  his  bride  by  saying  "  Yes,"  she 
was  taken  with  a  sudden  fainting  fit,  and  that  on  the  bridegroom  ap- 
proaching to  unlace  the  bosom  of  her  dress  to  give  her  air,  he  found 
a  paper  in  her  own  handwriting,  in  which  she  said  and  declared  that 
she  could  not  be  Don  Fernando's  bride,  because  she  was  already 
Cardenio's,  who,  accordino;  to  the  man's  account,  was  a  o^entleman 
of  distinction  in  the  same  city  ;  and  tliat  if  she  had  accepted  Don  Fer- 
nando, it  was  only  in  obedience  to  her  parents.  In  short,  he  said, 
the  words  of  the  paper  made  it  clear  she  meant  to  kill  herself  on  tlie 
completion  of  the  betrothal,  and  gave  her  reasons  for  putting  an 
end  to  herselt;  all  which  was  confirmed,  it  was  said,  by  a  dagger 
they  found  somewhere  in  her  clothes.  On  seeing  this,  Don  Fer- 
nando, persuaded  that  Luscinda  had  befooled,  slighted,  and  trifled 


LUSCINDA    FAINTING.     Vol.1.      Page  234. 


CHAPTER    XXV II I.  235 

with  him,  assailed  her  before  she  liad  recovered  from  her  swoon, 
and  tried  to  stab  her  with  the  dagger  tliat  had  been  found,  and 
would  have  succeeded  had  not  her  parents  and  those  who  were 
present  prevented  him.  It  was  said,  moreover,  that  Don  Fernando 
went  away  at  once,  and  that  Luscinda  did  not  recover  from  her 
prostration  until  the  next  day,  when  she  told  her  parents  how  she 
was  really  the  bride  of  that  Cardenio  I  have  mentioned.  I  learned 
besides  that  Cardenio,  according  to  report,  had  been  present  at  the 
betrothal ;  and  that  upon  seeing  her  betrothed  contrai-y  to  his  expec- 
tation, he  had  quitted  the  city  in  despair,  leaving  behind  him  a  let- 
ter declaring  the  wrong  Luscinda  had  done  him,  and  his  intention  of 
going  where  no  one  should  ever  see  him  again.  All  this  was  a  matter 
of  notoriety  in  the  city,  and  eveiy  one  spoke  of  it ;  especially  wlien  it 
became  known  that  Luscinda  was  missing  from  her  father's  house 
and  from  the  city,  for  she  was  not  to  be  found  anywhere,  to  the  dis- 
traction of  her  parents,  who  knew  not  what  steps  to  take  to  recover 
her.  What  I  learned  revived  my  Iiopes,  and  I  was  better  pleased  not 
to  have  found  Don  Fernando  than  to  find  him  man'ied,  for  it  seemed 
to  me  that  the  door  was  not  yet  entirely  shut  upon  relief  in  my  case, 
and  I  thought  that  perhaps  Heaven  had  put  this  impediment  in  the 
way  of  the  second  marriage,  to  lead  him  to  recognize  his  obligations 
under  the  former  one,  and  reflect  that  as  a  Christian  he  was  bound  to 
consider  his  soul  above  all  human  objects.  All  this  passed  through 
my  mind,  and  I  strove  to  comfort  luyself  without  comfort,  in(hilging 
in  feint  and  distant  hopes  of  cherishing  that  life  that  I  now  aljhor. 

But  while  I  was  in  the  city,  uncertain  what  to  do,  as  I  could  not 
find  Don  Fernando,  I  heard  notice  given  by  the  public  crier  ottering 
a  great  reward  to  any  one  who  should  find  me,  and  giving  the  par- 
ticulars of  my  age  and  of  the  very  dress  I  wore ;  and  I  heard  it  said 
that  the  lad  who  came  with  me  had  taken  me  away  from  my  father's 
house  ;  a  thing  that  cut  me  to  the  heart,  showing  how  low  my  good 
name  had  fallen,  since  it  was  not  enough  that  I  should  lose  it  by  my 
flight,  but  they  must  add  with  whom  I  had  fled,  and  that  one  so 
much  beneath  me  and  so  unworthy  of  my  consideration.  The  instant 
I  heard  the  notice  I  quitted  the  city  with  my  servant,  who  now  began 
to  show  signs  of  wavering  in  his  fidelity  to  me,  and  the  same  night, 
for  fear  of  discovery,  we  entered  the  most  thickly  wooded  part  of 
these  mountains.  But,  as  is  commonly  said,  one  evil  calls  up 
another,'  and  the  end  of  one  misfortune  is  apt  to  be  the  beginning  of 
one  still  greater,  and  so  it  proved  in  my  case ;  for  my  worthy  ser- 
vant, until  then  so  faithful  and  trusty,  when  he  found  me  in  this 
lonely  spot,  moved  more  by  his  own  villany  than  by  my  lieauty, 
sought  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity  which  these  solitudes 
seemed  (o  present  hiiu,  and  with  little  shame  and  less  fear  of  God 
and  respect  for  me,  began  to  make  overtures  to  me ;  and  finding  that 
I  replied  to  the  effrontery  of  his  proposals  with  justly  severe  lan- 
guage, he  laid  aside  the  entreaties  which  he  had  employed  at  first, 
and  began  to  use  violence.  But  just  Heaven,  that  seldom  fails  to 
watch  over  and  aid  good  intentions,  so  aided  mine  that  with   ni}' 

» Prov.  133. 


236  DON  Quixorn. 

slight  strength  and  with  little  exertion  1  pushed  him  over  a  preci- 
pice, where  I  left  him,  whether  dead  or  alive  1  know  not;  and  then, 
witli  greater  speed  than  seemed  possible  in  my  terror  and  fatigue,  I 
made  my  way  into  the  mountains,  without  any  other  thouglit  or  pur- 
pose save  that  of  hiding  myself  among  them,  and  escaping  my  father 
and  those  despatched  in  search  of  me  by  his  orders.  It  is  now  I 
know  not  how  many  months  since  with  this  object  I  came  here, 
wdiere  I  met  a  herdsman  who  engaged  me  as  his  servant  at  a  place 
in  the  heart  of  this  Sierra,  and  all  this  time  I  have  been  serving  him 
as  hertl,  striving  to  keep  always  afield  to  hide  these  locks  which  have 
now  unexpectedly  betrayed  me.  But  all  my  care  and  pains  were 
unavailing,  for  my  master  made  the  discovery  that  I  was  not  a  man, 
and  liarbored  the  same  base  designs  as  my  servant;  and  as  fortune 
does  not  always  supply  a  remedy  in  cases  of  difficulty,  and  I  had  no 
precipice  or  ravine  at  hand  downi  which  to  fling  the  master  and  cure 
his  passion,  as  I  had  in  the  servant's  case,  I  tliought  it  a  lesser  evil 
to  leave  him  and  again  conceal  myself  among  these  crags,  than  make 
trial  of  my  strength  and  argument  with  him.  So,  as  I  say,  once 
more  I  went  into  hiding  to  seek  for  some  place  where  I  might  with 
sighs  and  tears  implore  Heaven  to  Iiave  pity  on  my  misery,  and 
grant  me  help  and  sti-ength  to  escape  from  it,  or  let  me  die  among 
the  solitudes,  leaving  no  trace  of  an  unhappy  being  Avho,  by  no  fault 
of  hers,  has  furnished  matter  for  talk  and  scandal  at  home  and 
abroad . 


CHAPTER   XXTX. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  DROLL  DEVICE  AXD  METHOD  ADOPTED 
TO  EXTRICATE  OUR  LO^^-STRICKEN  KNIGHT  FROM  THE 
SEVERE    PENANCE    HE    HAD    IMPOSED    UPON    HIMSELF. 

"  Such,  sirs,  is  the  true  story  of  my  sad  adventures ;  judge 
for  yourselves  now  w^liether  the  sighs  and  hanientations  you 
heard,  and  the  tears  that  flowed  from  my  eyes,  had  not  suffi- 
cient cause  even  if  I  had  indulged  in  them  more  freely  ;  and  if 
you  consider  the  nature  of  my  misfortune  you  will  see  that 
consolation  is  idle,  as  there  is  no  possible  remedy  for  it.  All 
I  ask  of  you  is,  what  you  may  easily  and  reasonably  do,  to 
show  me  where  I  may  pass  my  life  unharassed  by  the  fear 
and  dread  of  discovery  by  those  who  are  in  search  of  me  ;  for 
though  the  great  love  my  parents  bear  me  makes  me  feel  sure 
of  being  kindly  received  by  them,  so  great  is  my  feeling  of 
shame  at  the  mere  thought  that  I  can  not  present  myself  before 
them   as  they  expect,  that  I  had  rather  banish  myself  from 


CHAPTER    XXIX.  237 

their  sight  forever  than  look  them  in  the  face  with  the  reflec- 
tion that  they  behehl  mine  stripped  of  that  pnrity  that  they 
had  a  right  to  expect  in  me." 

With   these  words    she   became    silent,  and  the  color  that 
overspread  her  face  showed  plainly  the  pain  and  shame  she 
was  snffering  at  heart.     In  theirs  the  listeners  felt  as  much 
pity  as  wonder  at  her    misfortunes  ;    but    as   the  curate  was 
just  about  to  offer  her  some  consolation  and  advice  Cardenio 
forestalled   him,  saying,  "  So  then,  senora,  you    are  the  fair 
Dorothea,  the  only  daughter  of  the  rich  Clenardo  ?  "     Doro- 
thea was  astonished  at  hearing  her  father's  name,  and  at  the 
miserable  appearance  of  him  Avho  mentioned  it,  for  it  lias  been 
already  said  how  wretchedly  clad  Cardenio  was  ;  so  she  said  to 
him,  ''  And  who  may  you  be,  brother,  who  seem  to  know  my 
father's  name  so  well  ?     For  so  far,  if  I  remember  rightly,  I 
have  not  mentioned  it  in  the  whole  story  of  my  misfortunes." 
<'  I  am  that  unhappy  being,  senora,''  replied  Cardenio,  "whom, 
as  you  have  said,  Luscinda  declared  to  be  her  hnsband  ;  I  am 
the  unfortunate  Cardenio,  whom  the  wrong-doing  of  him  Avho 
has  brought  you  to  your  present  condition  has  reduced  to  the 
state  you  see  me  in,  bare,  ragged,  bereft  of  all  human  c;omfort, 
and  what  is  worse,  of  reason,  for  I  only  possess  it  when  Heaven 
is  pleased  for  some  short  space  to  restore  it  to  me.     I,  Dorothea, 
am  he  who  witnessed  the  wrong  done  by  Don  Fernando,  and 
waited  to  hear  the  '  Yes '  uttered  by  which  Luscinda  owned 
herself  his  betrothed  :  I  am  he  who  had  not  courage  enough  to 
see  how  her  fainting  fit  ended,  or  what  came  of  the  paper  that 
was  found  in  her  bosom,  because  my  heart  had  not  the  forti- 
tude to  endure  so  many  strokes  of  ill-fortune  at  once  ;  and  so 
losing  patience  I  quitted  the  house,  and  leaving  a  letter  with 
my  host,  which  I  entreated  him  to  place  in  Luscinda's  hands,  I 
betook  myself  to  these  solitudes,  resolved  to  end  here  the  life 
I  hated  as  if  it  were  my  mortal  enemy.     But  fate  would  not 
rid  me  of  it,  contenting  itself  with  robbing  me  of  my  reason, 
perhaps  to  preserve   me  for  the  good  fortune  I  have  had  in 
meeting  you;  for  if  that  which  you  have  just  told  us  be  true, 
as  I  believe  it  to  be,  it  may  be  that  Heaven  has  yet  in  store 
for  both  of  us  a  happier  termination  to  our  misfortunes  than 
we  look  for ;  because,  seeing  that  Luscinda  can  not  marry  Don 
Fernando,  being  mine,  as  she  has  herself  so  openly  declared, 
and  that  Don  Fernando  can  not  marry  her  as  he  is  yours,  we 
may  reasonably  lio})e  that  Heaven  will  restore  to  us  what  is 


238  DON    QUIXOTE. 

ours,  as  it  is  still  in  existence  and  not  yet  alienated  or  de- 
stroyed. And  as  we  have  this  consolation  springing  from  no 
very  visionary  hope  or  wild  fancy,  I  entreat  you,  senora,  to 
form  new  resolutions  in  your  better  mind,  as  I  mean  to  do  in 
mine,  preparing  yourself  to  look  forward  to  happier  fortunes  ; 
for  I  swear  to  you  by  the  faith  of  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian 
not  to  desert  you  until  I  see  you  in  possession  of  Don  Fernando, 
and  if  I  can  not  by  words  induce  him  to  recognize  his  obligation 
to  you,  in  that  case  to  avail  myself  of  the  right  which  my  rank  as 
a  gentleman  gives  me,  and  with  just  cause  challenge  him  on 
account  of  the  injury  he  has  done  you,  not  regarding  my  own 
Avrongs,  Avhich  I  shall  leave  to  Heaven  to  avenge,  while  I  on 
earth  devote  myself  to  yours." 

Cardenio's  words  completed  the  astonishment  of  Dorothea, 
and  not  knowing  how  to  return  thanks  for  such  an  offer,  she 
attempted  to  kiss  his  feet ;  but  Cardenio  would  not  permit  it, 
and  the  licentiate  replied  for  both,  commended  the  sound  reas- 
oning of  Cardenio,  and  lastly,  begged,  advised,  and  urged  them 
to  come  with  him  to  his  village,  where  they  might  furnish  them- 
selves with  what  they  needed,  and  take  measures  to  discover 
Don  Fernando,  or  restore  Dorothea  to  her  parents,  or  do  what 
seemed  to  theni  most  advisable.  Cardenio  and  Dorothea 
thanked  him,  and  accepted  the  kind  offer  he  made  them  ;  and 
the  Ijarber,  Avho  had  been  listening  to  all  attentively  and  in 
silence,  on  his  part  said  some  kindly  words  also,  and  with  no 
less  good-will  than  the  curate  offered  his  services  in  any  way 
that  might  be  of  use  to  them.  He  also  exidained  to  them  in  a 
few  Avords  the  object  that  had  brought  them  there,  and  the 
strange  nature  of  Don  Quixote's  madness,  and  hoAv  they  were 
waiting  for  his  squire,  who  had  gone  in  search  of  him.  Like 
the  recollection  of  a  dream,  the  quarrel  he  had  had  with  Don 
Quixote  came  back  to  Cardenio's  memory,  and  he  described  it 
to  the  others ;  but  he  was  unable  to  say  what  the  dispute  A\as 
about. 

At  this  moment  they  heard  a  shout,  and  recognized  it  as 
coming  from  Sancho  Panza,  who,  not  finding  them  where  he 
had  left  them,  was  calling  aloud  to  them.  They  went  to  meet 
him,  and  in  answer  to  their  inquiries  about  Don  Quixote,  he 
told  them  how  he  had  found  him  stripped  to  his  shirt,  lank, 
yellow,  half  dead  with  hunger,  and  sighing  for  his  lady  Dul- 
cinea ;  and  although  he  had  told  him  that  she  commanded 
him  to  (put  that  place  and  come  to  El  Toboso,  where  she  was 


CHAPTER    XXIX.  239 

expecting  liim,  he  had  answered  that  he  was  determined  not  to 
appear  in  the  presence  of  her  beauty  until  he  had  done  deeds  to 
make  him  worthy  of  her  favor  ;  and  if  this  went  on,  Sancho 
said,  he  ran  the  risk  of  not  becoming  an  emperor  as  in  duty 
bound,  or  even  an  archbishop,  which  was  the  least  he  could 
be  ;  for  which  reason  they  ought  to  consider  what  was  to  be 
done  to  get  him  away  from  there.  The  licentiate  in  reply  told 
him  not  to  be  uneasy,  for  they  would  fetch  him  away  in  spite 
of  himself.  He  then  told  Cardenio  and  Dorothea  what  they 
had  proposed  to  do  to  cure  Don  Quixote,  or  at  any  rate  take; 
him  home  ;  upon  which  Dorothea  said  that  she  could  play  the 
distressed  damsel  better  than  the  barber  ;  especially  as  she 
had  there  the  dress  in  which  to  do  it  to  the  life,  and  that  they 
might  trust  to  her  acting  the  part  in  every  particular  requisite 
for  carrying  out  their  scheme,  for  she  had  read  a  great  many 
books  of  chivalry,  and  kncAv  exactly  the  style  in  which  afflicted 
damsels  begged  boons  of  knights-errant. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  curate,  "  there  is  nothing  more  re- 
cpired  than  to  set  about  it  at  once,  for  beyond  a  doubt,  fortune 
is  declaring  itself  in  our  favor,  since  it  has  so  unexpectedly 
begun  to  open  a  door  for  your  relief,  and  smoothed  the  way 
for  us  to  our  object." 

Dorothea  then  took  out  of  her  pillow-case  a  complete  petti- 
coat of  some  rich  stuff,  and  a  green  mantle  of  some  other  fine 
material,  and  a  necklace  and  other  ornaments  out  of  a  little 
box,  and  with  these  in  an  instant  she  so  arrayed  herself  that 
she  looked  like  a  great  and  rich  lady.  All  this,  and  more,  she 
said,  she  had  taken  from  home  in  case  of  need,  but  that  until 
then  she  had  had  no  occasion  to  make  use  of  it.  They  were  all 
highly  delighted  with  her  grace,  air,  and  beauty,  and  declared 
Don  Fernando  to  be  a  man  of  very  little  taste  when  he  re- 
jected such  charms.  But  the  one  who  admired  her  most  was 
Sancho  Panza,  for  it  seemed  to  him  (what  indeed  was  true) 
that  in  all  the  days  of  his  life  he  had  never  seen  such  a  lovely 
creature ;  and  he  asked  the  curate  with  great  eagerness  who 
this  beautiful  lady  was,  and  what  she  wanted  in  these  out-of- 
the-way  quarters. 

"  This  fair  lady,  brother  Sancho,"  replied  the  curate,  "  is  no 
less  a  personage  than  the  heiress  in  the  direct  male  line  of  the 
great  kingdom  of  Micomicon,  who  has  come  in  search  of  your 
master  to  beg  a  boon  of  him,  which  is  that  he  redress  a  wrong 
or  injury  that  a  wicked  giant  has  done  her ;  and  from  the  fame 


240  BON    QUIXOTE. 

as  a  good  knight  which  your  master  has  ac(i[iiired  far  and  wide, 
this  princess  has  come  from  Guinea  to  seek  him." 

"  A  lucky  seeking  and  a  kicky  finding  ! "  said  Sancho  Panza 
at  this  ;  "  especially  if  my  master  has  the  good  fortune  to  re- 
dress that  injury,  and  right  that  wrong,  and  kill  that  son  of  a 
bitch  of  a  giant  your  worship  speaks  of  ;  as  kill  him  he  will  if 
he  meets  him,  unless,  indeed,  he  happens  to  be  a  phantom  ;  for 
my  master  has  no  power  at  all  against  phantoms.  But  one 
thing  among  others  I  would  beg  of  you,  seiior  licentiate,  which 
is,  that,  to  prevent  my  master  taking  a  fancy  to  be  an  arch- 
bishop, for  that  is  what  I  h\\  afraid  of,  your  worship  would 
recommend  him  to  marry  this  princess  at  once  ;  for  in  this  way 
he  will  be  disabled  from  taking  archbishop's  orders,  and  will 
easily  come  into  his  empire,  and  I  to  the  end  of  my  desires  ; 
I  have  been  thinking  over  the  matter  carefully,  and  by  what  I 
can  make  out  I  find  it  will  not  do  for  me  that  my  master  should 
become  an  archbishop,  because  I  am  no  good  for  the  Church, 
as  I  am  married  ;  and  for  me  now,  having  as  I  have  a  wife  and 
children,  to  set  about  obtaining  dis})ensations  to  enable  me  to 
hold  a  place  of  profit  under  the  Church,  would  be  endless  work  ; 
so  that,  senor,  it  all  turns  on  my  master  marrying  this  lady  at 
once  —  for  as  yet  I  do  not  know  her  grace,  and  so  I  can  not  call 
her  by  her  name." 

"•  Slie  is  called  the  Princess  Micomicona,"  said  the  curate  ; 
"  for  as  her  kingdom  is  Micomicon,  it  is  clear  that  must  be  her 
name." 

''  There  's  no  doubt  of  that,"  replied  Sancho,  "  for  I  have 
known  many  to  take  their  name  and  title  from  the  place 
where  they  were  born  and  call  themselves  Pedro  of  Alcala, 
Juan  of  tJbeda,  and  Diego  of  Valladolid  ;  and  it  may  be  that 
over  there  in  Guinea  queens  have  the  same  way  of  taking  the 
names  of  their  kingdoms." 

"  So  it  may,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  and  as  for  your  master's 
marrying,  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  towards  it :  "  with  which 
Sancho  was  as  much  pleased  as  the  curate  was  amazed  at  his 
simplicity  and  at  seeing  what  a  hold  the  absurdities  of  his 
master  had  taken  of  his  fancy,  for  he  had  evidently  persuaded 
himself  that  he  was  going  to  be  an  emperor. 

By  this  time  Dorothea  had  seated  herself  upon  the  curate's 
mule,  and  the  barber  had  fitted  the  ox-tail  beard  to  his  face, 
and  they  now  told  Sancho  to  conduct  them  to  where  Don 
Quixote  was,  warning  him  not  to  say  that  he  knew  either  the 


CHAPTER    XXIX.  241 

licentiate  or  the  barber,  as  his  master's  bccoiuiug  an  emperor 
entirely  depended  on  his  not  recognizing  them;  neither  the 
curate  nor  Cardenio,  however,  thought  tit  to  go  with  them  ; 
Cardenio  lest  he  should  remind  Don  Quixote  of  the  quarrel  he 
had  with  him,  and  the  curate  as  there  was  no  necessity  for  Ids 
presence  just  yet,  so  they  allowed  the  others  to  go  on  before 
them,  while  they  themselves  followed  slowly  on  foot.  The 
curate  did  not  forget  to  instruct  Dorothea  how  to  act,  but  she 
said  they  might  make  their  minds  easy,  as  everything  would 
be  done  exac-tly  as  the  books  of  chivalry  required  and  de- 
scribed. 

They  had  gone  about  three-quarters  of  a  league  when  they 
discovered  Don  Quixote  in  a  wilderness  of  rocks,  by  this  time 
clothed,  but  without  his  armor ;  and  as  soon  as  Dorothea  saw 
him  and  was  told  by  Sancho  that  that  was  Don  Quixote,  she 
whipped  her  palfrey,  the  well-bearded  barber  following  her, 
and  on  coming  up  to  him  her  squire  sprang  from  his  mule  and 
came  forward  to  receive  her  in  his  arms,  and  she  dismounting 
with  great  ease  of  manner  advanced  to  kneel  before  the  feet 
of  Don  Quixote ;  and  though  he  strove  to  raise  her  up,  she 
without  rising  addressed  him  in  this  fashion,  "  From  this 
spot  I  will  not  rise,  0  valiant  and  doughty  knight,  until  your 
goodness  and  courtesy  grant  me  a  boon,  which  will  redound  to 
the  honor  and  renown  of  your  person  and  render  a  service  to 
the  most  disconsolate  and  afflicted  damsel  the  sim  has  seen  ; 
and  if  the  might  of  your  strong  arm  corresponds  to  the  repute 
of  your  immortal  fame,  you  are  bound  to  aid  the  helpless  be- 
ing who,  led  by  the  savor  of  your  renowned  name,  hath  come 
from  far  distant  lands  to  seek  your  aid  in  her  misfortunes." 

"  I  will  not  answer  a  word,  beauteous  lady,"  replied  Don 
Quixote, "  nor  will  I  listen  to  anything  further  concerning  you, 
until  you  rise  from  the  earth." 

"  I  will  not  rise,  sefior,"  answered  the  afflicted  damsel,  "  un- 
less of  your  courtesy  the  boon  I  ask  is  first  granted  me." 

''  I  grant  and  accord  it,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  })rovided  with- 
out detriment  or  prejudice  to  my  king,  my  country,  or  her  who 
holds  the  key  of  my  heart  and  freedom,  it  may  be  complied 
with." 

"  It  will  not  be  to  the  detriment  or  prejudice  of  any  of  them, 
my  worthy  lord,"  said  the  afflicted  damsel ;  and  here  Sancho 
Panza  drew  close  to  his  master's  ear  and  said  to  him  very  softly, 
"  Your  worship  may  very  safely  grant  the  boon  she  asks  ;  it 's 

Vol.  I.  — 16 


242  DON    QUIXOTE. 

nothing  at  all ;  only  to  kill  a  big  giant ;  and  she  who  asks  it 
is  the  exalted  princess  Micomicona,  queeu  of  the  great  kingdom 
of  Mieomicon  of  Ethiopia." 

"  Let  her  be  who  she  may,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  I  will  do 
what  is  my  bounden  duty,  and  what  my  conscience  bids  me,  in 
conformity  with  what  I  have  professed ;  "  and  turning  to  the 
dainsel  he  said,  "  Let  your  great  beauty  rise,  for  I  grant  the 
boon  which  you  would  ask  of  me." 

"  Then  what  I  ask,"  said  the  damsel,  "  is  that  your  magnani- 
mous person  accompany  me  at  once  whither  I  will  conduct  you, 
and  that  you  promise  not  to  engage  in  any  other  adventure  or 
quest  until  you  have  avenged  me  of  a  traitor  who,  against  all 
human  and  divine  law,  has  usurped  my  kingdom." 

"  I  repeat  that  I  grant  it,"  replied  Don  Quixote  ;  "  and  so, 
lady,  you  may  from  this  day  forth  lay  aside  the  melancholy 
that  distresses  you,  and  let  your  failing  hopes  gather  new  life 
and  strength,  for  with  the  help  of  God  and  of  my  arm  you  will 
soon  see  yourself  restored  to  your  kingdom,  and  seated  upon 
the  throne  of  your  ancient  and  mighty  realm,  notwithstanding 
and  despite  of  the  felons  who  would  gainsay  it;  and  now 
hands  to  the  work,  for,  as  they  say,  in  delay  there  is  apt  to  be 
danger."  ^ 

^  The  distressed  damsel  strove  with  much  pertinacity  to  kiss 
his  hands  ;  but  Don  Quixote,  who  was  in  all  things  a  polished 
and  courteous  knight,  would  by  no  means  allow  it,  but  made 
her  rise  and  embraced  her  with  great  courtesy  and  politeness, 
and  ordered  Sancho  to  look  to  Eocinante's  girths,  and  to  arm 
him  without  a  moment's  delay.  Sancho  took  doAvn  the  armor, 
which  was  hung  up  on  a  tree  like  a  trophy,  and  having  seen  to 
the  girths,  armed  his  master  in  a  trice,  who  as  soon  as  he  found 
himself  in  his  armor  exclaimed, '''  Let  us  be  gone  in  the  name  of 
God  to  bring  aid  to  this  great  lady." 

The  barber  was  all  this  time  on  his  knees  at  great  pains  to 
hide  his  laughter  and  not  let  his  beard  fall,  for  had  it  fallen 
maybe  their  fine  scheme  Avould  ha\'e  come  to  nothing  ;  but  now 
seeing  the  boon  granted,  and  the  promptitude  with  "which  Don 
Quixote  prepared  to  set  out  in  compliance  with  it,  he  rose  and 
took  his  lady's  hand,  and  between  them  they  placed  her  upon 
the  mule.  Don  Quixote  then  mounted  Rocinante,  and  the  bar- 
ber settled  himself  on  his  beast,  Sancho  being  left  to  go  on  foot, 
which  made  him  feel  anew  the  loss  of  his  Dapple,  finding  the 

*  Prov.  222. 


CHAPTER    XXIX.  243 

want  of  him  now.  But  he  bore  all  with  cheerfulness,  being 
persuaded  that  his  master  had  now  fairly  started  and  was  just 
on  the  point  of  becoming  an  emperor ;  for  he  felt  no  doubt  at 
all  that  he  would  marry  this  princess,  and  be  king  of  Micomi- 
con  at  least.  The  only  thing  tliat  troubled  him  was  the  reflec- 
tion that  this  kingdom  was  in  the  land  of  the  blacks,  and  that 
the  people  they  would  give  him  for  vassals  would  all  be  black ; 
but  for  this  he  soon  found  a  remedy  in  his  fancy,  and  said  he 
to  himself,  ''■  AVhat  is  it  to  me  if  my  vassals  are  blacks  ?  What 
more  have  I  to  do  than  make  a  cargo  of  them  and  carry  them 
to  Spain,  where  I  can  sell  them  and  get  ready  money  for  them, 
and  with  it  buy  some  title  or  some  office  in  which  to  live  at  ease 
all  the  days  of  my  life  ?  Not  unless  you  go  to  sleep  and  have  n't 
the  wit  or  skill  to  turn  things  to  account  and  sell  three,  six, 
or  ten  thousand  vassals  while  you  would  l^e  talking  about  it ! 
By  God  I  will  stir  them  up,  big  and  little,  or  as  best  I  can,  and 
let  them  be  ever  so  black  I  '11  turn  them  into  white  or  yellow. 
Come,  come,  what  a  fool  I  am !  "  ^  And  so  he  jogged  on,  so 
occupied  with  his  thoughts  and  easy  in  his  mind  that  he  forgot 
all  about  the  hardship  of  travelling  on  foot. 

Cardenio  and  the  curate  were  watching  all  this  from  among 
some  bushes,  not  knowing  how  to  join  company  with  the  others  ; 
but  the  curate,  who  was  very  fertile  in  devices,  soon  hit  upon  a 
way  of  effecting  their  purpose,  and  with  a  pair  of  scissors  that 
he  had  in  a  case  he  quickly  cut  off  Cardenio's  beard,  and  put- 
ting on  him  a  gray  jerkin  of  his  own  he  gave  him  a  black  cloak, 
leaving  himself  in  his  breeches  and  doublet,  while  Cardenio's 
appearance  was  so  different  from  what  it  had  been  that  he  would 
not  have  known  himself  had  he  seen  himself  in  a  mirror.  Hav- 
ing effected  this,  although  the  others  had  gone  on  ahead  while 
they  were  disguising  themselves,  they  easily  came  out  on  the 
high  road  before  them,  for  the  brambles  and  awkward  places 
they  encountered  did  not  alloAV  those  on  horseback  to  go  as  fast 
as  those  on  foot.  •  They  then  posted  themselves  on  the  level 
ground  at  the  outlet  of  the  Sierra,  and  as  soon  as  Don  Quixote 
and  his  companions  emerged  from  it  the  curate  began  to  examine 
him  very  deliberately,  as  though  he  were  striving  to  recognize 
him,  and  after  having  stared  at  him  for  some  time  he  hastened 
towards  him  Avith  open  arms  exclaiming,  ^^  A  happy  meeting 
with  the  mirror  of  chivalry,  my  worthy  compatriot  Don  Quixote 

'  Literally,  "  I  am  sucking  my  fingers."  Shelton  and  Jervas  translate 
literally,  and  so  miss  the  meaning. 


244  DON    QUIXOTE. 

of  La  Mancha,  the  flower  and  cream  of  high  breeding,  the  pro- 
tection and  relief  of  the  distressed,  the  quintessence  of  knights- 
errant  !  "  And  so  saying  lie  clasped  in  his  arms  the  knee  of 
Don  Quixote's  left  leg.  He,  astonished  at  the  stranger's  words 
and  behavior,  looked  at  him  attentively,  and  at  length  recog- 
nized him,  very  much  surprised  to  see  him  there,  and  made 
great  efforts  to  dismount.  This,  however,  the  curate  would  not 
allow,  on  which  Don  Quixote  said,  "  Permit  me,  seiior  licentiate, 
for  it  is  not  fitting  that  I  should  be  on  horseback  and  so  rever- 
end a  person  as  your  worship  on  foot." 

"  On  no  account  will  I  allow  it,"  said  the  curate ;  "  your 
mightiness  must  remain  on  horseback,  for  it  is  on  horseback 
you  achieve  the  greatest  deeds  and  adventures  that  have  been 
beheld  in  our  age  ;  as  for  me,  an  unworthy  priest,  it  will  serve 
me  well  enough  to  mount  on  the  haunches  of  one  of  the  mules 
of  these  gentlefolk  who  accompau}'  your  worship,  if  they  have 
no  objection,  and  I  will  fancy  I  am  mounted  on  the  steed  Pe- 
gasus, or  on  the  zebra  or  charger  that  bore  the  famous  Moor, 
Muzaraque,  who  to  this  day  lies  enchanted  in  the  great  hill  of 
Zulema,  a  little  distance  from  the  great  Complutum."  ^ 

"  Nor  even  that  will  I  consent  to,^  senor  licentiate,"  answered 
Don  Quixote,  "  and  I  know  it  will  be  the  good  pleasure  of  my 
lady  the  princess,  out  of  love  for  me,  to  order  her  squire  to 
give  vip  the  saddle  of  his  mule  to  your  worship,  and  he  can  sit 
behind  if  the  beast  will  bear  it." 

"  It  will,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  princess,  "  and  I  am  sure,  too, 
that  I  need  not  order  my  squire,  for  he  is  too  courteous  and 
too  good  a  Christian  to  allow  a  Churchman  to  go  on  foot  when 
he  might  be  mounted." 

"  That  he  is,"  said  the  barber,  and  at  once  alighting,  he 
offered  his  saddle  to  the  curate,  who  accepted  it  without  much 
entreaty  ;  but  unfortunately  as  the  barber  was  mounting  behind, 
the  mule,  being  as  it  happened  a  hired  one,  which  is  the  same 
thing  as  saying  ill-conditioned,  lifted  its  hind  hoofs  and  let  fly 
a  couple  of  kicks  in  the  air,  which  would  have  made  Master 
Nicholas  wish  his  expedition  in  quest  of  Don  Quixote  at  the 
devil  had  they  caught  him  on  the  breast  or  head.  As  it  was, 
they  so  took  him  by  sur^trise  that  he  came  to  the  ground,  giving 
so  little  heed  to  his  beard  that  it  fell  off,  and  all  he  coidd  do 

^  In  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  Alcala  de  Henares. 
'  I  have  followed  here  the  suggestion  of  Fernandez  Cuesta,  for  the 
reading  in  the  original  edition  is  obviously  corrupt. 


CHAPTER    XXIX.  245 

when  he  found  himself  without  it  was  to  cover  his  face  hastily 
with  both  his  hands  and  moan  that  his  teeth  were  knocked 
out.  Don  Quixote  wlien  he  saw  all  that  bundle  of  beai-d  de 
tached,  without  jaws  or  blood,  from  the  face  of  the  fallen 
squire,  exclaimed,  "■  By  the  living  God,  but  this  is  a  great  mir- 
acle !  it  has  knocked  off  and  plucked  the  beard  from  his  face 
as  if  it  had  been  shaved  off  designedly." 

The  curate,  seeing  the  danger  of  discovery  that  threatened 
his  scheme,  at  once  pounced  upon  the  beard  and  hastened  with 
it  to  where  Master  IS'icholas  lay,  still  uttering  moans,  and  draw- 
ing his  head  to  his  l)reast  had  it  on  in  an  instant,  muttering  over 
him  some  words  which  he  said  were  a  certain  special  charm  for 
sticking  on  beards,  as  they  would  see  ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had 
it  fixed  he  left  him,  and  the  squire  appeared  well  bearded  and 
whole  as  before,  whereat  Don  Quixote  was  beyond  measure  as- 
tonished, and  begged  the  curate  to  teach  him  that  charm  when 
he  had  an  oijportunity,  as  he  was  persuaded  its  virtue  must 
extend  beyond  the  sticking  on  of  beards,  for  it  was  clear  that 
where  the  beard  had  been  stripped  off  the  flesh  must  have 
remained  torn  and  lacerated,  and  when  it  could  heal  all  that  it 
must  be  good  for  more  than  beards. 

"  And  so  it  is,"  said  the  curate,  and  he  promised  to  teach  it 
to  him  on  the  first  opportunity.  They  then  agreed  that  for  the 
present  the  curate  should  mount,  and  that  the  three  should  ride 
by  turns  until  they  reached  the  inn,  which  might  be  about  six 
leagues  from  where  they  were.' 

Three  then  being  mounted,  that  is  to  say,  Don  Quixote,  the 
l)rincess.  and  the  curate,  and  three  on  foot,  Cardenio,  the  bar- 
ber, and  Sancho  Panza,  Don  Quixote  said  to  the  damsel,  *'  Let 
your  highness,  lady,  lead  on  whithersoever  is  luost  pleasing  to 
you  ;  "  but  before  she  could  answer  the  licentiate  said,  '■'■  To- 
wards what  kingdom  -would  your  ladyship  direct  our  course  ? 
Is  it  perchance  towards  that  of  Micomicon  ?  It  must  be,  or 
else  I  know  little  about  kingdoms." 

She,  being  ready  on  all  points,  understood  that  she  was  to 
answer  ''  Yes,"  so  she  said,  "  Yes,  senor,  my  way  lies  towards 
that  kingdom." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  curate,  "  we  must  pass  right  through 
my  village,  and  there  your  worship  will  take  the  road  to  Cai"- 
tagena,  where  you  will  be  able  to  embark,  fortune  favoring ;  and 

'  The  original  says  "  two  leagues,"  but  the  context  shows  it  must  have 
been  at  least  thrice  as  far. 


246  DON    QUIXOTE. 

if  tlie  wind  be  fair  and  the  sea  smooth  and  tranquil,  in  some- 
what less  than  nine  years  yon  may  come  in  sight  of  the  great 
lake  Meona,  I  mean  Meotides,  which  is  little  more  than  a  hun- 
dred days'  journey  this  side  of  your  highness's  kingdom." 

"  Your  worsliip  is  mistaken,  seflor,"  said  she  ;  "  for  it  is  not 
two  years  since  I  set  out  from  it,  and  though  I  never  had  good 
weather,  nevertheless  I  am  here  to  behold  what  I  so  longed  for, 
and  that  is  my  Lord  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  whose  fame 
came  to  my  ears  as  soon  as  I  set  foot  in  Spain,  and  impelled 
me  to  go  in  search  of  him,  to  commend  myself  to  his  courtesy, 
and  intrust  the  justice  of  my  cause  to  the  might  of  his  invin- 
cible arm." 

"Enough;  no  more  praise,"  said  Don  Quixote  at  this,  "for  I 
hate  all  flattery ;  and  though  this  may  not  be  so,  still  language 
of  the  kind  is  offensive  to  my  chaste  ears.  I  will  only  say, 
senora,  that  whether  it  has  might  or  not,  that  which  it  may  or 
may  not  have  shall  be  devoted  to  your  service  even  to  death  ; 
and  now,  leaving  this  to  its  proper  season,  I  would  ask  the  senor 
licentiate  to  tell  me  what  it  is  that  has  brought  him  into  these 
parts,  alone,  unattended,  and  so  lightly  clad  that  I  am  filled 
Avith  amazement." 

"  I  will  answer  that  briefly,"  replied  the  curate ;  "  you  must 
know  then,  Senor  Don  Quixote,  that  Master  Nicholas,  our  friend 
and  barber,  and  I  were  going  to  Seville  to  receive  some  money 
that  a  relative  of  mine  who  went  to  the  Indies  many  years  ago 
had  sent  me,  and  not  such  a  small  sum  but  that  it  was  over  sixty 
thousand  pieces  of  eight,  full  weight,  which  is  something ;  and 
passing  by  this  place  yesterday  we  were  attacked  by  four  foot- 
pads, who  stripped  us  even  to  our  beards,  and  them  they  stripped 
off  so  that  the  barber  found  it  necessary  to  put  on  a  false  one, 
and  even  this  young  man  here  "  —  pointing  to  Cardenio  —  "  they 
completely  transformed.  Biit  the  best  of  it  is,  the  story  goes 
in  the  neighborhood  that  those  who  attacked  us  belong  to  a 
number  of  galley  slaves  who,  they  say,  were  set  free  almost  on 
the  very  same  spot  by  a  man  of  such  valor  that,  in  spite  of  the 
commissary  and  of  the  guards,  he  released  the  whole  of  them ; 
and  beyond  all  doubt  he  must  have  been  out  of  his  senses,  or  he 
must  be  as  great  a  scoundrel  as  they,  or  some  man  without  heart 
or  conscience  to  let  the  wolf  loose  among  the  sheep,  the  fox 
among  the  hens,  the  fly  among  the  honey. ^     He  has  defrauded 

'  Clemencin  and  Hartzonbusch  point  out  that  to  let  the  fly  loose  "  among 
the  honey  "  would  be  worse  for  him  than  for  it,  and  the  latter,  giving  a 
quotation  in  point  from  Francisco  de  Rojas,  substitutes  "  the  bear." 


CHAPTER    XXX.  24T 

justice,  and  up[)osed  his  king  and  lawful  master,  for  he  opposed 
his  just  commands ;  he  has,  I  say,  robbed  the  galleys  of  their 
feet,  stirred  up  the  Holy  Brotherhood  which  for  many  years 
past  has  been  quiet,  and,  lastly,  has  done  a  deed  by  Avhich  his 
soul  may  be  lost  without  any  gain  to  his  body.*'  Sancho  had 
told  the  curate  and  the  barber  of  the  adventure  of  the  galley 
slaves,  which,  so  much  to  his  glory,  his  master  had  achieved, 
and  hence  the  curate  in  alluding  to  it  made  the  most  of  it  to 
see  what  would  be  said  or  done  by  Don  Quixote ;  who  changed 
color  at  every  word,  not  daring  to  say  that  it  was  he  Avho  had 
been  the  liberator  of  those  worthy  people.  "  These,  then,"  said 
the  curate,  ''were  they  who  robbed  us;  and  God  in  his  mercy 
pardon  him  who  would  not  let  them  go  to  the  punishment  they 
deserved." 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

WHICH     TREATS     OF     THE     ADDRESS     DISPLAYED    BY    THE    FAIR 
DOROTHEA,  WITH  OTHER    MATTERS    PLEASANT  AND  AMUSING. 

The  curate  had  hardly  ceased  speaking,  when  Sancho  said, 
"  In  faith,  then,  sefior  licentiate,  he  who  did  that  deed  was  my 
master ;  and  it  was  not  for  want  of  my  telling  him  beforehand 
and  warning  him  to  mind  what  he  was  about,  and  tliat  it  was  a 
sin  to  set  them  at  liberty,  as  they  were  all  on  the  march  there 
because  they  were  special  scoundrels." 

"  Blockhead  !  "  said  Don  Quixote  at  this,  "  it  is  no  business 
or  concern  of  knights-errant  to  inquire  whether  any  persons  in 
affliction,  in  chains,  or  oppressed  that  they  may  meet  on  the 
high  roads  go  that  way  and  suffer  as  they  do  liecause  of  their 
faults  or  because  of  their  misfortunes.  It  only  concerns  them 
to  aid  them  as  persons  in  need  of  help,  having  regard  to  their 
sufferings  and  not  to  their  rascalities.  I  encountered  a  chaplet 
or  string  of  }uiserable  and  inifortunate  people,  and  did  for  them 
what  my  sense  of  duty  demands  of  me,  and  as  for  the  rest  be 
that  as  it  may ;  and  whoever  takes  objection  to  it,  saving  the 
sacred  dignity  of  the  seiior  licentiate  and  his  honored  person,  I 
say  he  knows  little  about  chivalry  and  lies  like  a  whoreson 
villain,  and  this  I  will  give  Mm  to  know  to  the  fullest  extent 
with  my  sword ;  "  and  so  saying  he  settled  himself  in  his  stir- 
rups and  pressed  down  his  morion;    for  the  barber's  basin, 


248  DON    QUIXOTE. 

which  according  to  him  was  Mambrino's  helmet,  he  carried 
hanging  at  the  saddle-bow  until  he  could  repair  the  damage 
done  to  it  by  the  galley  slaves. 

Dorothea,  who  was  shrewd  and  sprightly,  and  by  this  time 
thoroughly  understood  Don  Quixote's  crazy  turn,  and  that  all 
except  Sancho  Panza  were  making  game  of  him,  not  to  be 
.behind  the  rest  said  to  him,  on  observing  his  irritation,  "  Sir 
Knight,  remember  the  boon  you  have  promised  me,  and  that  in 
accordance  with  it  you  must  not  engage  in  any  other  adventure, 
be  it  ever  so  pressing  ;  calm  yourself,  for  if  the  licentiate  had 
known  that  the  galley  slaves  had  been  set  free  by  that  uncon- 
quered  arm  he  would  have  stopped  his  mouth  thrice  over,  or 
even  bitten  his  tongue  three  times  before  he  would  have  said 
a  word  that  tended  towards  disrespect  of  your  worship." 

"  That  I  swear  heartily,"  said  the  curate,  "  and  I  would  have 
even  plucked  off  a  mustache." 

"  I  will  hold  my  peace,  senora,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''  and  I 
will  curb  the  natural  anger  that  had  arisen  in  my  breast,  and 
will  proceed  in  peace  and  quietness  until  I  have  fulfilled  my 
promise  ;  but  in  return  for  this  consideration  I  entreat  you  to 
tell  me,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  do  so,  what  is  the  nature 
of  your  trouble,  and  how  many,  who,  and  what  are  the  persons 
of  whom  I  am  to  require  due  satisfaction,  and  on  whom  I  am 
to  take  vengeance  on  your  behalf '!  " 

"  That  I  will  do  with  all  my  heart,"  replied  Dorothea,  '•  if  it 
will  iu:)t  be  wearisome  to  you  to  hear  of  miseries  and  mis- 
fortunes." 

"  It  will  not  be  wearisome,  senora,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  to 
which  Dorothea  replied,  "  Well,  if  that  be  so,  give  me  your 
attention."  As  soon  as  she  said  this,  (-ardenio  and  the  barber 
drew  close  to  her  side,  eager  to  hear  Avhat  sort  of  story  the 
quick-witted  Dorothea  woidd  invent  for  herself ;  and  Sancho 
did  the  same,  for  he  was  as  much  taken  in  by  her  as  his 
master ;  and  she  having  settled  herself  comfortably  in  the 
saddle,  and  with  the  help  of  coughing  and  other  preliminaries 
taken  time  to  think,  began  with  great  sprightliness  of  manner 
in  this  fashion : 

"  First  of  all,  I  would  have  you  know,  sirs,  that  my  name 
is  —  "  and  here  she  stopped  for  a  moment,  for  she  forgot  the 
name  the  curate  had  given  her ;  but  he  came  to  her  relief,  see- 
ing what  her  difficulty  was,  and  said,  "It  is  no  wonder,  senora, 
that  your  highness   should  be   confused  and  embarrassed  in 


CHAPTER    XXX.  249 

telling  the  tale  of  your  misfortunes ;  for  such  afflictions  often 
have  the  effect  of  depriving  the  sufferers  of  memory,  so  that 
they  do  not  even  remember  their  own  names,  as  is  the  case 
now  with  your  ladyship,  who  has  forgotten  that  she  is  called 
the  Princess  Micomicona,  lawful  heiress  of  the  great  kingdom 
of  Micomicon ;  and  Avith  this  cue  your  highness  may  now  recall 
to  your  sorrowful  recollection  all  you  may  wish  to  tell  us." 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  said  the  damsel ;  "  but  I  think  from 
this  on  I  shall  have  no  need  of  any  i)romi)ting,  and  I  shall 
bring  my  true  story  safe  into  port,  and  here  it  is.  The  king 
my  father,  who  was  called  Tinacrio  the  Sajjient,  was  very 
learned  in  what  they  call  magic  arts,  and  became  aAvare  by 
his  craft  that  my  mother,  who  was  called  Queen  Jaranrilla, 
was  to  die  before  he  did,  and  that  soon  after  he  too  Avas  to 
depart  this  life,  and  I  was  to  be  left  an  orphan  without  father 
or  mother.  But  all  this,  he  declared,  did  not  so  much  grieve 
or  distress  him  as  his  certain  knowledge  that  a  prodigious 
giant,  the  lord  of  a  great  island  close  to  our  kingdom,  Panda- 
filando  of  the  Scowl  by  name  —  for  it  is  averred  that,  though 
his  eyes  are  properly  placed  and  straight,  he  ahvays  looks 
askew  as  if  he  squinted,  and  this  he  does  out  o£  malignity,  to 
strike  fear  and  terror  into  those  he  looks  at  —  that  he  knew, 
I  say,  that  this  giant  on  becoming  aware  of  my  orphan  condi- 
tion would  overrun  my  kingdom  with  a  uughty  force  and  strip 
me  of  all,  not  leaving  me  even  a  small  village  to  shelter  me ; 
but  that  I  could  avoid  all  this  ruin  and  misfortune  if  I  were 
Avilling  to  marry  him  ;  however,  as  far  as  he  could  see,  he 
never  expected  that  I  Avould  consent  to  a  marriage  so  unequal ; 
and  he  said  no  more  than  the  truth  in  this,  for  it  has  never 
entered  my  mind  to  marry  that  giant,  or  any  other,  let  him  be 
ever  so  great  or  enormous.  My  father  said,  too,  that  when  he 
was  dead,  and  I  saw  Pandafilando  about  to  invade  my  king- 
dom, I  Avas  not  to  wait  and  attempt  to  defend  myself,  for  that 
would  be  destructiA^e  to  me,  but  that  I  should  leave  the  king- 
dom entirely  open  to  him  if  I  Avished  to  avoid  the  death  and 
total  destruction  of  my  good  and  loyal  vassals,  for  there  Avould 
be  no  possibility  of  defending  myself  against  the  giant's  devil- 
ish power ;  and  that  I  should  at  once  with  some  of  my  followers 
set  out  for  Spain,  Avhere  I  should  obtain  relief  in  my  distress 
on  finding  a  certain  knight-errant  Avhose  fame  by  that  time 
Avould  extend  over  the  whole  kingdom,  and  who  would  be 
called,  if  I  remember  rightly,  Don  Azote  or  Don  Gigote." 


250  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  '  Don  Quixote/  he  must  have  said,  senora,"  observed  Sancho 
at  this,  "  otherwise  called  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Counte- 
nance." 

''That  is  it,"  said  Dorothea;  "he  said,  moreover,  that  he 
would  be  tall  of  stature  and  lank  featured ;  and  that  on  his 
right  side  under  the  left  shoulder,  or  thereabouts,  he  would 
have  a  gray  mole  with  hairs  like  bristles."  ^ 

On  hearing  this,  Don  Quixote  said  to  his  squire,  "  Here, 
Sancho  my  son,  bear  a  hand  and  help  me  to  strip,  for  I  want 
to  see  if  I  am  the  knight  that  sage  king  foretold." 

"  What  does  your  worship  want  to  strip  for  ?  "  said  Dorothea. 

"  To  see  if  I  have  that  mole  your  father  spoke  of,"  answered 
Don  Quixote. 

"  There  is  no  occasion  to  strip,"  said  Sancho ;  "  for  I  know 
your  worship  has  just  such  a  mole  on  the  middle  of  your  back- 
bone, which  is  the  mark  of  a  strong  man." 

"  That  is  enough,"  said  Dorothea,  "  for  with  friends  we  must 
not  look  too  closely  into  trifles ;  and  whether  it  be  on  the 
shoulder  or  on  the  backbone  matters  little  ;  it  is  enough  if 
there  is  a  mole,  be  it  where  it  may,  for  it  is  all  the  same  flesh  ; 
no  doubt  my  g()od  father  hit  the  truth  in  every  particular,  and 
I  have  made  a  lucky  hit  in  commending  myself  to  Don  Quixote ; 
for  he  is  the  one  my  father  spoke  of,  as  the  features  of  his 
countenance  correspond  with  those  assigned  to  this  knight  by 
that  wide  fame  he  has  acquired  not  only  in  Sj)ain  but  in  all  La 
Mancha  ;  for  I  had  scarcely  landed  at  Osuna  Avhen  I  heard  such 
accounts  of  his  achievements,  that  at  once  my  heart  told  me  he 
was  the  very  one  I  had  come  in  search  of." 

"  But  how  did  you  land  at  Osuna,  seiiora,"  asked  Don  Quixote, 
"  when  it  is  not  a  seaport  ?  "  ^ 

But  before  Dorothea  could  reply  the  curate  anticipated  her, 
saying,  ''  The  princess  meant  to  say  that  after  she  had  landed 
at  Malaga  the  first  place  where  she  heard  of  your  worship  was 
Osuna." 

"  That  is  what  I  meant  to  say,"  said  Dorothea. 

"  And  that  would  be  only  natural,"  said  the  curate.  "  Will 
your  majesty  please  proceed  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  more  to  add,"  said  Dorothea,  "  save  that  in 

■  This  was  the  mark  from  which  the  ancestor  of  the  Dukes  of  Medina- 
celi,  Fernanrlo  de  la  Cerda,  took  his  name. 

*  This  is  a  sly  hit  of  Cervantes  at  Mariana  the  historian,  who  makes  the 
troops  despatched  against  Viriatus  land  at  Orsuna,  now  Osuna. 


CHAPTER    XXX.  251 

finding  Don  Quixote  I  have  had  such  good  fortune,  that  I 
already  reckon  and  regard  myself  queen  and  mistress  of  my 
entire  dominions,  since  of  his  courtesy  and  magnanimity  he  has 
granted  me  the  boon  of  acconqtanying  me  whithersoever  1  may 
conduct  him,  which  will  be  only  to  bring  him  face  to  face  with 
Pandafilando  of  the  Scowl,  that  he  may  slay  him  and  restore 
to  me  what  has  been  unjustly  usurped  by  him  :  for  all  this 
must  come  to  pass  satisfactorily  since  my  good  fathei'  Tinacrio 
the  Sai)ient  foretold  it,  who  likewise  left  it  declared  in  writing 
in  Chaldee  or  Greek  characters  (for  I  can  not  read  them),  that 
if  this  predicted  knight,  after  having  cut  the  giant's  throat, 
should  be  disposed  to  marry  me,  I  Avas  to  offer  myself  at  once 
without  demur  as  his  lawful  wife,  and  yield  him  possession  of 
my  kingdom  together  with  my  person." 

'<  What  thinkest  thou  now,  friend  Sancho  ? "  said  Don 
Quixote  at  this.  "  Hearest  thou  that  ?  Did  I  not  tell  thee 
so  ?  See  how  we  have  already  got  a  kingdom  to  govern  and 
a  queen  to  marry  ?  " 

"  On  my  oath  it  is  so,"  said  Sancho  ;  "  and  foul  fortune  to 
him  who  won't  marry  after  slitting  Senor  Pandahilado's  wind- 
pipe !  And  then,  how  ill-favored  the  queen  is  !  I  wish  the 
fleas  in  my  bed  were  that  sort ! "  and  so  saying  he  cut  a 
couj)le  of  capers  in  the  air  with  every  sign  of  extreme  satis- 
faction, and  then  ran  to  seize  the  bridle  of  Dorothea's  mule, 
and  checking  it  fell  on  his  knees  before  her,  begging  her  to 
give  him  her  hand  to  kiss  in  token  of  his  acknowledgment  of 
her  as  his  queen  and  mistress.  Which  of  the  bystanders 
could  have  helped  laughing  to  see  the  madness  of  the  master 
and  the  simplicity  of  the  servant  ?  Dorothea  therefore  gave 
her  hand,  and  promised  to  make  him  a  great  lord  in  her  king- 
dom, when  Heaven  should  be  so  good  as  to  permit  her  to 
recover  and  enjoy  it,  for  which  Sancho  returned  thanks  in 
words  that  set  them  all  laughing  again. 

'^  This,  sirs,"  continued  Dorothea,  "  is  my  story  ;  it  only  re- 
mains to  tell  you  that  of  all  the  attendants  I  took  with  me 
from  my  kingdom  I  have  none  left  except  this  well-beaixled 
squire,  for  all  were  drowned  in  a  great  tempest  we  encoun- 
tered when  in  sight  of  port ;  and  he  and  I  came  to  land  on  a 
couple  of  planks  as  if  by  a  miracle  ;  and  indeed  the  whole 
course  of  my  life  is  a  miracle  and  a  mystery  as  you  may  have 
observed  ;  and  if  I  have  been  over  minute  in  any  respect  or 
not  as  precise  as  I  ought,  let  it  be  accounted  for  lay  what  the 


252  DON    QUIXOTE. 

licentiate  said  at  the  beginning  of  my  tale,  that  constant  and 
excessive  troubles  deprive  the  sufferers  of  their  memory." 

''  They  shall  not  deprive  me  of  mine,  exalted  and  worthy 
princess,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  However  great  and  unexampled 
those  which  I  shall  endure  in  your  service  may  be  ;  and  here  I 
confirm  anew  the  boon  I  have  promised  you,  and  I  swear  to 
go  with  you  to  the  end  of  the  world  until  I  find  myself  in  the 
presence  of  your  fierce  enemy,  whose  haughty  head  I  trust  by 
the  aid  of  God  and  of  my  arm  to  cut  off  with  the  edge  of  this 
—  I  will  not  say  good  sword,  thanks  to  the  Gines  de  Pasa- 
monte  who  carried  away  mine  "  —  (this  he  said  between  his 
teeth,  and  then  continued),^  "  and  when  it  has  been  cut  off  and 
you  have  been  put  in  peaceful  possession  of  your  realm  it 
shall  be  left  to  your  own  decision  to  dispose  of  your  person 
as  may  be  most  pleasing  to  you ;  for  so  long  as  my  memory  is 
occupied,  my  will  enslaved,  and  my  understanding  inthralled 
by  her  —  I  say  no  more  —  it  is  impossible  for  me  for  a  mo- 
ment to  contem})late  marriage,  even  with  a  Phoenix." 

The  last  words  of  his  master  about  not  wanting  to  marry 
were  so  disagreeable  to  Sancho  that  raising  his  voice  he  ex- 
claimed with  great  irritation,  ''  By  my  oath,  Senor  Don  Qui- 
xote, you  are  not  in  your  right  senses  ;  for  how  can  your 
worship  possibly  object  to  marrying  such  an  exalted  princess 
as  this  ?  Do  you  think  Fortune  will  offer  you  behind  every 
stone  such  a  piece  of  luck  as  is  offered  you  now  ?  Is  my  lady 
Dulcinea  fairer,  perchance  ?  Not  she ;  nor  half  as  fair  ;  and 
I  will  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  she  does  not  come  up  to  the 
shoe  of  this  one  here.  A  poor  chance  I  have  of  getting  that 
county  I  am  Avaiting  for  if  your  worship  goes  looking  for 
dainties  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea.^  In  the  devil's  name,  marry, 
marry,  and  take  this  kingdom  that  comes  to  hand  without  any 
trouble,  and  when  you  are  king  make  me  a  marquis  or  governor 
of  a  province,  and  for  the  rest  let  the  devil  take  it  all." 

Don  Quixote,  when  he  heard  such  blasphemies  uttered  against 
his  lady  Dulcinea,  could  not  endure  it,  and  lifting  his  pike, 

'  Cervantes  seems  to  have  intended  that  Gines  de  Pasamonte  should 
carry  off  Don  Quixote's  sword,  as  Brunello  did  Mariisa's  at  the  siege  of 
Albraeca. 

^Prov.  60.  Pedir  cotufas  en  el  golfo  —  a  proverbial  expression  for 
seeking  impossibilities.  Cotufa,  according  to  Salvd,  is  equivalent  to 
golosina  —  a  dainty:  Clemencin  says  it  is  the  same  as  Chufa^  the  tuber 
of  the  Cyparus  esciilentus,  used  as  an  ingredient  in  hoixhata,  and  in  other 
ways. 


CHAPTER    XXX.  253 

without  saying  anything  to  Saneho  or  uttering  a  word,  he  gave 
him  two  such  thwacks  that  he  brought  him  to  the  ground ;  and 
had  it  not  been  that  Dorothea  cried  out  to  him  to  spare  him  he 
wouhl  have  no  doubt  taken  his  life  on  the  spot.  "  Do  yo\i 
think,"  he  said  to  him  after  a  pause,  "  you  scurvy  clown,  that 
you  are  to  be  always  interfering  with  me,  and  that  you  are  to 
be  always  offending  and  I  always  pardoning  ?  Don't  fancy  it, 
impious  scoundrel,  for  that  beyond  a  doubt  thou  art,  since  thou 
hast  set  thy  tongue  going  against  the  peerless  Dulcinea.  Know 
you  not,  lout,  vagabond,  beggar,  that  were  it  not  for  the  might 
which  she  infuses  into  my  arm  I  should  not  have  strength 
enough  to  kill  a  flea  ?  Say,  O  scoffer  with  a  viper's  tongue, 
\\liat  think  you  has  won  this  kingdom  and  cut  oft'  this  giant's 
head  and  made  you  a  marquis  (for  all  this  I  count  as  already 
accomplished  and  decided),  but  the  might  of  Dulcinea,  employ- 
ing my  arm  as  the  instrument  of  her  achievements  ?  She 
tights  in  nie  and  conquers  in  me,  and  I  live  and  breathe  in 
her,  and  owe  my  life  and  being  to  her.  0  whoreson  scoundrel, 
how  ungrateful  you  are,  you  see  yourself  raised  from  the  dust 
of  the  earth  to  be  a  titled  lord,  and  the  return  you  make  for  so 
great  a  benefit  is  to  speak  evil  of  her  who  has  conferred  it 
upon  you !  " 

SancJio  was  not  so  stunned  but  that  he  heard  all  his  master 
said,  and  rising  with  some  degree  of  nimbleness  he  ran  to 
place  himself  behind  Dorothea's  palfrey,  and  from  that  posi- 
tion he  said  to  his  master,  ''  Tell  me,  sefior  ;  if  your  worship  is 
resolved  not  to  marry  this  great  princess,  it  is  plain  the  kingdom 
will  not  be  yours  ;  and  not  being  so,  how  can  you  bestoAv  favors 
upon  me  ?  That  is  what  I  complain  of.  Let  your  worship  at 
any  rate  marry  this  queen,  now  that  we  have  got  her  here  as 
if  showered  down  from  heaven,  and  afterwards  you  may  go 
back  to  my  lady  Dulcinea ;  for  there  must  have  been  kings  in 
the  world  who  kept  mistresses.  As  to  beauty,  I  have  nothin 
to  do  with  it ;  and  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told,  I  like  them  both 
though  I  have  never  seen  the  lady  Dulcinea." 

"  How  !  never  seen  her,  blasphemous  traitor  !  "  exclaimed 
Don  Quixote  ;  "  hast  thou  not  just  now  brought  me  a  message 
from  her  ?  " 

'*  I  mean,"  said  Saneho,  "  that  I  did  not  see  her  so  much  at 
my  leisure  that  I  could  take  particular  notice  of  her  beauty,  or 
of  her  charms  piecemeal ;  but  taken  in  the  lump  I  like  her." 

''  Now  I  forgive  thee,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;    "  and  do  thou 


t> 


254  DON    QUIXOTE. 

forgive  me  the  injury  I  have  done  thee  ;   for  our  first  impulses 
are  not  in  our  control." 

^'  That  I  see,"  replied  Sancho,  "  and  with  me  the  wish  to 
speak  is  always  the  first  impulse,  and  I  cannot  help  saying, 
once  at  any  rate,  what  I  have  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue." 

"  For  all  that,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  take  heed  of 
what  thou  sayest,  for  the  pitcher  goes  so  often  to  the  well  ^  — 
I  need  say  no  more  to  thee." 

"  AVell,  well,"  said  Sancho,  ''  God  is  in  heaven,  and  sees  all 
tricks,  and  will  judge  who  does  most  harm,  I  in  not  speaking 
right,  or  your  worship  in  doing  it." 

"  That  is  enough,"  said  Dorothea ;  '^  run,  Sancho,  and  kiss 
your  lord's  hand  and  beg  his  pardon,  and  henceforward  be 
more  circumspect  with  your  praise  and  abuse  ;  and  say  noth- 
ing in  disparagement  of  that  lady  Tobosa,  of  whom  I  know 
nothing  save  that  I  am  her  servant ;  and  put  your  trust  in 
God,  for  you  will  not  fail  to  obtain  some  dignity  so  as  to  live 
like  a  prince." 

Sancho  advanced  hanging  his  head  and  begged  his  master's 
hand,  which  Don  Quixote  with  dignity  presented  to  him,  giving 
him  his  blessing  as  soon  as  he  had  kissed  it ;  he  then  bade  him 
go  on  ahead  a  little,  as  he  had  questions  to  ask  him  and  mat- 
ters of  great  importance  to  discuss  with  him.  Sancho  obeyed, 
and  when  the  two  had  gone  some  distance  Don  Quixote  said 
to  him,  ''  Since  thy  return  I  have  had  no  opportunity  or  time 
to  ask  thee  many  particulars  touching  thy  mission  and  the 
answer  thou  hast  brought  back,  and  now  that  chance  has 
granted  us  the  time  and  opportunity,  deny  me  not  the  happi- 
ness thou  canst  give  me  by  such  good  news." 

''  Let  your  worship  ask  what  you  will,"  answered  Sancho, 
"  for  I  shall  find  a  way  out  of  all  as  easily  as  I  found  a  way  in  ; 
but  I  implore  you,  senor,  not  to  be  so  revengeful  in  future." 

"  Why  dost  thou  say  that,  Sancho  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  say  it,"  he  returned,  "  because  those  blows  just  now  were 
more  because  of  the  quarrel  the  devil  stirred  up  between  us 
both  the  other  night,  than  for  what  I  said  against  my  lady 
Dulcinea,  whom  I  love  and  reverence  as  I  would  a  relic  — 
though  there  is  nothing  of  that  about  her  —  merely  as  some- 
thing belonging  to  your  worship." 

"  Say  no  more  on  that  subject  for  thy  life,  Sancho,"  said  Don 

'  I'rov.  3;5.  Ill  full  it  is,  "  the  pitcher  that  goes  often  to  the  well  leaves 
behind  either  the  handle  or  the  spout." 


CHAPTER    XXX.  255 

Quixote,  "  for  it  is  displeasing  to  me  ;  I  have  already  pardoned 
thee  for  that,  and  thou  knowest  the  common  saying,  '  For  a 
fresh  sin  a  fresh  penance.'  '' ' 

While  this  was  going  on  they  saw  coming  along  the  road 
they  were  following  a  man  mounted  on  an  ass,  who  when  he 
came  close  seemed  to  be  a  gypsy  ;  but  Sancho  Panza,  whose 
eyes  and  heart  were  there  wherever  he  saw  asses,  no  sooner  be- 
held the  man  than  he  knew  him  to  be  Gines  de  Pasamonte ; 
and  by  the  thread  of  the  gypsy  he  got  at  the  ball,  his  ass,'^ 
for  it  was,  in  fact,  Dapple  that  carried  Pasamonte,  who  to  es- 
cape recognition  and  to  sell  the  ass  had  disguised  himself  as  a 
gypsy,  being  able  to  speak  the  gypsy  language,  and  many  more, 
as  well  as  if  they  were  his  own.  Sancho  saw  him  and  recog- 
nized him,  and  the  instant  he  did  so  he  shouted  to  him, 
"  Ginesillo,  you  thief,  give  up  my  treasure,  release  my  life, 
embarrass  thyself  not  with  my  repose,  quit  my  ass,  leave  my 
delight,  be  off,  rip,  get  thee  gone,  thief,  and  give  up  what  is 
not  thine." 

There  was  no  necessity  for  so  many  words  or  objurgations,  for 
at  the  first  one  Gines  jumped  down,  and  at  a  trot  like  racing 
speed  made  off  and  got  clear  of  them  all.  Sancho  hastened  to 
his  Dapple,  and  embracing  him  he  said,  "  How  hast  thou  fared, 
my  blessing.  Dapple  of  my  eyes,  my  comrade  ?  "  all  the  while 
kissing  him  and  caressing  him  as  if  he  were  a  human  being. 
The  ass  held  his  peace,  and  let  himself  be  kissed  and  caressed 
by  Sancho  without  answering  a  single  word.  They  all  came 
up  and  congratulated  him  on  having  found  Dapple,  Don  Qui- 
xote especially,  who  told  him  that  notwithstanding  this  he 
would  not  cancel  the  order  for  the  three  ass-colts,  for  which 
Sancho  thanked  him. 

While  the  two  had  been  going  along  conversing  in  this 
fashion,  the  curate  observed  to  Dorothea  that  she  had  shown 
great  cleverness,  as  well  in  the  story  itself  as  in  its  concise- 
ness, and  the  resemblance  it  bore  to  those  of  the  books  of 
chivalry.  She  said  that  she  had  many  times  amused  herself 
reading  them ;  but  that  she  did  not  know  the  situation  of  the 

'  Prov.   177. 

^  A  reference  to  the  proverb  For  el  hi/o  se  saca  el  ovillo  (H-t)-  This 
passage  down  to  "  Sancho  thanked  him,"  like  that  describing  tlie  tlieft  of 
the  ass,  was  first  inserted  in  Juan  de  hi  Cuseta's  second  edition.  This, 
liowever,  seems  to  be  Cervantes'  own  work,  as  it  agrees  with  c.  iv.  Pt.  II. 
The  printer,  no  doubt,  did  not  see  its  relevancy,  and  therefore  omitted  it 
in  the  first  edition. 


256  DON    QUIXOTE. 

provinces  or  seaports,  and  so  she  had  said  at  hap-hazard  that 
she  had  landed  at  Osuna. 

''  So  I  saw,"  said  the  curate,  "  and  for  that  reason  I  made 
haste  to  say  what  I  did,  by  which  it  Avas  all  set  right.  But  is 
it  not  a  strange  thing  to  see  how  readily  this  unhappy  gentle- 
man believes  all  these  figments  and  lies,  simply  because  they 
are  in  the  style  and  manner  of  the  absurdities  of  his  books  ?  " 

'<  So  it  is,"  said  Cardenio  ;  *'  and  so  uncommon  and  unex- 
ampled, that  were  one  to  attempt  to  invent  and  concoct  it  in 
fiction,  I  doubt  if  there  be  any  wit  keen  enough  to  imagine  it." 

<'  But  another  strange  thing  about  it,"  said  the  curate,  <'  is 
that,  apart  from  the'  silly  things  which  this  worthy  gentleman 
says  in  connection  Avith  his  craze,  when  other  subjects  are 
dealt  Avith,  he  can  discuss  them  in  a  perfectly  rational  manner, 
showing  that  his  mind  is  quite  clear  and  composed  ;  so  that, 
provided  his  chivalry  is  not  touched  upon,  no  one  Avould  take 
him  to  be  anything  but  a  man  of  thoroughly  sound  under- 
standing." 

While  they  Avere  holding  this  conversation  Don  Quixote 
continued  his  Avith  Sancho,  saying,  '<  Friend  Panza,  let  us  for- 
give and  forget  as  to  our  quarrels,  and  tell  me  noAV,  dismissing 
auger  and  irritation,  Avhere,  how,  and  Avhen  didst  thou  find 
Dulcinea  ?  What  was  she  doing  ?  AVliat  didst  thou  say  to 
her  ?  What  did  she  ansAver  ?  How  did  she  look  Avhen  she 
Avas  reading  my  letter  ?  Who  copied  it  out  for  thee  ?  and 
everything  in  the  matter  that  seems  to  thee  Avorth  knowing, 
asking,  and  learning  ;  neither  adding  nor  falsifying  to  give  me 
pleasure,  nor  yet  curtailing  lest  you  should  de])rive  me  of  it." 

"  Senor,"  replied  Sancho,  "  if  the  truth  is  to  be  told,  nobody 
copied  out  the  letter  for  me,  for  I  carried  no  letter  at  all." 

''  It  is  as  thou  sayest,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  the  note-book 
in  Avhich  I  Avrote  it  I  found  in  my  oavu  possession  two  days 
after  thy  departure,  Avhich  gave  me  very  great  vexation,  as  I 
knew  not  what  thou  wouldst  do  on  finding  thyself  without  any 
letter  ;  and  I  made  sure  thou  Avouldst  return  from  the  place 
where  thou  didst  first  miss  it." 

"  So  I  should  have  done,"  said  Sancho,  ''  if  I  had  not  got  it 
by  heart  Avhen  your  worship  read  it  to  me,  so  that  I  repeated 
it  to  a  sacristan,  who  copied  it  out  for  me  from  hearing  it,  so 
exactly  that  he  said  in  all  the  days  of  his  life,  though  he  had 
read  many  a  letter  of  excommunication,  he  had  never  seen  or 
read  so  pretty  a  letter  as  that," 


CHAPTER    XXXI.  257 

"  And  hast  thou  got  it  still  in  thy  memory,  Saiicho  ?  "  said 
Don  Quixote. 

"  No,  senor,"  replied  Sancho,  "  for  as  soon  as  I  had  repeated 
it,  seeing  there  was  no  further  use  for  it,  I  set  about  forgetting 
it ;  and  if  I  recollect  any  of  it,  it  is  that  about  '  Scrubbing,'  I 
mean  to  say  '  Sovereign  Lady,'  and  the  end  '  Yours  till  death, 
the  Knight  of  the  Eueful  Countenance ; '  and  between  these 
two  I  put  into  it  more  than  three  hundred  '  my  souls '  and 
'  my  life's  '  and  '  my  eyes.'  " 


CHAPTER   XXXI.' 

OF  THE  DELECTABLE  DISCUSSION  BETWEEN  DON  QUIXOTE 
AND  SANCHO  PANZA,  HIS  SQUIRE,  TOGETHEK  WITH  OTHER 
INCIDENTS. 

'•  All  that  is  not  unsatisfactory  to  me,"  said  Don  Quixote. 
"  Go  on ;  thou  didst  reach  her  ;  and  what  was  that  queen  of 
beauty  doing  ?  Surely  thou  didst  hnd  her  stringing  pearls,  or 
embroidering  some  device  in  gold  thread  for  this  her  enslaved 
knight." 

'■'  I  did  not,"  said  Sancho,  "  but  I  found  her  winnowing  two 
bushels  of  wheat  in  the  yard  of  her  house." 

"  Then  depend  upon  it,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  the  grains  of 
that  wheat  were  pearls  when  touched  by  her  hands  ;  and  didst 
thou  look,  friend  ?  was  it  white  wheat  or  brown  ?  " 

"•  It  was  neither,  but  red,"  said  Sancho. 

"Then  I  promise  thee,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''that,  winnowed 
by  her  hands,  beyond  a  doulpt  the  bread  it  made  was  of  the 
whitest ;  but  go  on ;  when  thou  gavest  her  my  letter,  did  she 
kiss  it  ?  Did  she  place  it  on  her  head  ?  Did  she  perform  any 
ceremony  befitting  such  a  letter,  or  what  did  she  do  ?  " 

"  When  I  went  to  give  it  to  her,"  replied  Sancho,  "  she  was 
hard  at  it  swaying  from  side  to  side  Avith  a  lot  of  wheat  she 
had  in  the  sieve,  and  she  said  to  me, '  Lay  the  letter,  friend,  on 
the  top  of  that  sack,  for  I  can  not  read  it  until  I  have  done 
sifting  all  this.' " 

'  Tl\c  division  here  is  very  awkwardly  managed  :  cliapter  xxxi.  ought  to 
have  commenced  at  "  While  they  were  holding  this  conversation,"  in  the 
preceding  chapter. 
Vol.  I.  — 17 


258  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  Discreet  lady  ! "  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  that  was  in  order  to 
read  it  at  lier  leisure  and  enjoy  it ;  proceed,  Sancho  ;  while  she 
was  engaged  in  her  occupation  what  converse  did  she  hold  with 
thee  ?  What  did  she  ask  about  me,  and  what  answer  didst 
thou  give  ?  Make  haste  ;  tell  me  all,  and  let  not  an  atom  be 
left  behind  in  the  ink-bottle." 

"  She  asked  me  nothing,"  said  Sancho ;  "  but  I  told  her  how 
your  worship  was  left  doing  penance  in  her  service,  naked  from 
"the  waist  up,  in  among  these  mountains  like  a  savage,  sleeping 
on  the  ground,  not  eating  bread  off  a  tablecloth  nor  combing 
your  beard,  weeping  and  cursing  your  fortune." 

"  In  saying  I  cursed  my  fortune  thou  saidst  wrong,"  said  Don 
Quixote  ;  ''  for  rather  do  I  bless  it  and  shall  bless  it  all  the  days 
of  my  life  for  having  made  me  worthy  of  aspiring  to  love  so 
lofty  a  lady  as  Dulcinea  del  Toboso." 

"  And  so  lofty  she  is,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  she  overtops  me 
by  more  than  a  hand's-breadth." 

"  What !  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ^'  didst  thou  measure 
with  her?" 

"  I  measured  in  this  way,"  said  Sancho ;  "  going  to  help  her 
to  put  a  sack  of  wheat  on  the  back  of  an  ass,  we  came  so  close 
together  that  I  could  see  she  stood  more  than  a  good  palm  over 
me." 

"  Well ! "  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  doth  she  not  of  a  truth 
accompany  and  adorn  this  greatness  with  a  thousand  million 
charms  of  mind  !  But  one  thing  thou  wilt  not  deny,  Sancho ; 
when  thou  earnest  close  to  her  didst  thou  not  perceive  a  Sal  sean 
odor,  an  aromatic  fragrance,  a,  I  know  not  Avhat,  delicious, 
that  I  can  not  find  a  name  for ;  I  mean  a  redolence,  an  exliala- 
tion,  as  if  thou  wert  in  the  shop  of  some  dainty  glover  ?  " 

"  All  I  can  say  is,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  I  did  perceive  a  little 
odor,  something  goaty ;  it  must  have  been  that  she  was  all  in 
a  sweat  with  hard  work." 

"  It  could  not  be  that,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  but  thou  must 
have  been  suffering  from  cold  in  the  head,  or  nnist  have  smelt 
thyself ;  for  I  know  well  what  would  be  the  scent  of  that  rose 
among  thorns,  that  lily  of  the  field,  that  dissolved  amber." 

"  Maybe  so,"  replied  Sancho  ;  "  there  often  comes  from  my- 
self that  same  odor  which  then  seemed  to  me  to  come  from  her 
grace  the  lady  Dulcinea  ;  but  that 's  no  wonder,  for  one  devil 
is  like  another."  ^ 

>  Prov.  176. 


CHAPTER    XXXI.  259 

"  Well  then,"  continued  Don  Quixote,  "  now  she  has  done 
sifting  the  corn  and  sent  it  to  the  mill ;  ^  Avhat  did  she  do 
when  she  read  the  letter  '*  " 

"  As  for  the  letter,"  said  Sancho,  '•  she  did  not  read  it,  for 
she  said  she  could  neither  read  nor  write ;  instead  of  that  she 
tore  it  up  into  small  pieces,  saying  that  she  did  not  want  to 
let  any  one  read  it  lest  her  secrets  should  become  known  in 
the  village,  and  that  what  I  had  told  her  by  word  of  moutli 
about  the  love  your  worship  bore  her,  and  the  extraordinary 
penance  you  were  doing  for  her  sake,  was  enough  ;  and,  to 
make  an  end  of  it,  she  told  nie  to  tell  your  worship  that  she 
kissed  your  hands,  and  that  she  had  a  greater  desire  to  see 
you  than  to  write  to  you ;  and  that  therefore  she  entreated 
and  commanded  you,  on  sight  of  this  present,  to  come  out  of 
these  thickets,  and  to  have  done  with  carrying  on  absurdities, 
and  to  set  out  at  once  for  El  Toboso,  unless  something  else  of 
greater  importance  should  happen,  for  she  had  a  great  desire 
to  see  your  worship.  She  laughed  greatly  when  T  told  her 
how  your  worship  was  called  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Coun- 
tenance ;  I  asked  her  if  that  Biscayan  the  other  day  had  been 
there  ;  and  she  told  nre  he  had,  and  that  he  was  a  very  honest 
fellow ;  I  asked  her  too  about  the  galley  slaves,  but  she  said 
she  had  not  seen  any  yet." 

"  So  far  all  goes  well,"  said  Don  Quixote ;  "  but  tell  me 
what  jewel  was  it  that  she  gave  thee  on  taking  thy  leave,  in 
return  for  thy  tidings  of  me '!  Yov  it  is  a  iisual  and  ancient 
custom  with  knights  and  ladies  errant  to  give  the  squires, 
damsels,  or  dwarfs  who  bring  tidings  of  their  ladies  to  the 
knights,  or  of  their  knights  to  the  ladies,  some  rich  jewel  as 
a  guerdon  for  good  news,^  and  acknowledgment  of  the  mes- 
sage." 

"  That  is  likely,"  said  Sanclio,  "  and  a  good  custom  it  was, 
to  my  mind  ;  but  that  must  have  Ijeen  in  days  gone  by,  for  uoav 
it  Avould  seem  to  be  the  custom  only  to  give  a  piece  of  bread 
and  cheese  ;  because  that  was  what  my  lady  Dulcinea  gave  me 
oxQY  the  top  of  the  yard-wall  when  I  took  leave  of  her  ;  and 
more  by  token  it  was  sheep's-milk  cheese." 

"  She  is  generous  in  the  extreme,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and 
if  she  did  not  give  thee  a  jewel  of  gold,  no  doubt  it  must  have 

'  A  popular  phrase  like  '^  Well,  that's  settled." 

*  Alhricias.,  from  the  Arabic  al  bashara-,  a  reward  given  to  the  bearer 
of  arood  news. 


260  DON    QUIXOTE. 

been  because  she  had  not  one  ijoiiunti  inhere  to  give  thee  ;  but 
sleeves  are  good  after  Easter ;  ^  I  shall  see  her  and  all  shall  be 
made  right.  But  knowest  thou  what  amazes  me,  Sancho  ?  It 
seems  to  me  thou  must  have  gone  and  come  throiigh  the  air, 
for  thou  hast  taken  but  little  more  than  three  days  to  go  to  El 
Toboso  and  return,  though  it  is  more  than  thirty  leagues  from 
here  to  there.  From  which  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the 
satire  mao-ician  who  is  mv  friend,  and  watches  over  mv  interests 
(for  of  necessity  there  is  and  must  be  one,  or  else  I  should  not 
be  a  right  knight-errant),  that  this  same,  I  say,  must  have 
helped  thee  to  travel  without  thy  knowledge;  for  some  of 
these  sages  will  catch  up  a  knight-errant  sleeping  in  his  bed, 
and  without  his  knowing  how  or  in  what  way  it  happened,  he 
wakes  up  the  next  day  more  than  a  thousand  leagues  away 
from  the  place  where  he  went  to  sleep.  And  if  it  were  not 
for  this,  knights-errant  would  not  be  able  to  give  aid  to  one 
another  in  peril,  as  they  do  at  every  turn.  For  a  knight,  may- 
be, is  fighting  in  the  mountains  of  Armenia  with  some  dragon, 
or  herce  serpent,  or  another  knight,  and  gets  the  worst  of  the 
battle,  and  is  at  the  point  of  death ;  but  when  he  least  looks 
for  it,  there  appears  over  against  him  on  a  cloud,  or  chariot  of 
fire,  another  knight,  a  friend  of  his,  Avho  just  before  had  been 
in  England,  and  who  takes  his  part,  and  delivers  him  from 
death  ;  and  at  night  he  finds  himself  in  his  own  quarters  sup- 
ping very  much  to  his  satisfaction ;  and  yet  from  one  place  to 
the  other  will  have  been  two  or  three  thousand  leagues.  And 
all  this  is  done  by  the  craft  and  skill  of  the  sage  enchanters 
who  take  care  of  those  valiant  knights  ;  so  that,  friend  San- 
cho, I  find  no  difficulty  in  believing  that  thou  mayest  have 
gone  from  this  place  to  El  Toboso  and  returned  in  such  a  short 
time,  since,  as  I  have  said,  some  friendly  sage  must  have 
carried  thee  through  the  air  Vv'ithout  thee  perceiving  it." 

"  That  must  have  been  it,"  said  Sancho,  "  for  indeed  Roci- 
nante  went  like  a  g3'psy''s  ass  with  quicksilver  in  his  ears."- 

'•  Quicksilver  !  "  said  Don  Quixote,  •'  ay,  and  what  is  more,  a 
legion  of  devils,  folk  that  can  travel  and  make  others  travel 
without  being  weary,  exactly  as  the  whim  seizes  them.    But  put- 

^  Prov.  135,  i.e.  a  good  thing  nia_y  be  accepta})le  even  out  of  its  proper 
season,  as  after  Easter  the  weather  may  be  still  cold  enough  to  make 
sleeves  comfortable.  Cf .  the  Scotch  proverb,  "  A  Yule  feast  may  be  done 
at  Pasch." 

^  Alluding  to  a  common  device  of  the  gypsy  dealers  to  improve  the  pace 
of  a  beast  for  sale. 


CHAPTER    XXXI.  261 

ting  this  aside,  what  thinkest  thou  I  ought  to  do  about  uiy 
lady's  command  to  go  and  see  her  ?  For  tliough  I  feel  that  I 
am  bound  to  obey  her  mandate,  I  feel  too  tliat  I  am  debarred 
by  the  boon  I  have  accorded  to  the  princess  tluit  accompanies 
us,  and  the  law  of  chivalry  compels  me  to  have  regard  for  my 
word  in  preference  to  my  inclination;  on  the  one  hand  the  de- 
sire to  see  my  lady  pursues  and  harasses  me,  on  the  other  my 
solemn  promise  and  the  glory  I  shall  win  in  this  enterprise 
urge  and  call  me  ;  but  what  I  think  I  shall  do  is  to  travel  with 
all  speed  and  reach  quickly  the  place  where  this  giant  is,  and 
on  my  arrival  I  shall  cut  off  his  head,  and  establish  the  prin- 
cess peacefully  in  her  realm,  and  forthwith  I  shall  return,  to  be- 
hold the  light  that  lightens  my  senses,  to  whom  I  shall  nuike 
such  excuses  that  she  will  be  led  to  a}>})rove  of  my  delay,  for 
she  will  see  that  it  entirely  tends  to  increase  her  glory  and 
fame ;  for  all  that  I  have  won,  am  winning,  or  shall  win  by 
arms  in  this  life,  comes  to  me  of  the  favor  she  extends  to  me, 
and  because  I  am  hers." 

"  Ah  !  what  a  sad  state  your  worship's  brains  are  in  !  "  said 
Sancho.  "  Tell  me,  seiior,  do  you  mean  to  travel  all  that  way 
for  nothing,  and  to  let  slip  and  lose  so  rich  and  great  a  match 
as  this  Avhere  they  give  as  a  portion  a  kingdom  that  in  sober 
truth  I  have  heard  say  is  more  than  twenty  thousand  leagues 
round  about,  and  abounds  with  all  things  necessary  to  support 
human  life,  and  is  bigger  than  Portugal  and  Castile  put  to- 
gether ?  Peace,  for  the  love  of  God  !  Blush  for  Avhat  you 
have  said,  and  take  my  advice,  and  forgive  me,  and  marry  at 
once  in  the  first  village  where  there  is  a  curate  ;  if  not,  here  is 
our  licentiate  who  will  do  the  business  beautifully  ;  rememlier, 
I  am  old  enough  to  give  advice,  and  this  I  am  giving  comes 
pat  to  the  purpose ;  for  a  sparrow  in  the  hand  is  better  than  a 
vulture  on  the  wing,'  and  he  who  has  the  good  to  his  hand 
and  chooses  the  bad,  that  the  good  he  complains  of  may  not 
come  to  him."  '•^ 

"  Look  here,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote.  "  If  thou  art 
advising  me  to  marry,  in  order  that  immediately  on  slaying 
the  giant  I  may  become  king,  and  be  able  to  confer  favors  on 
thee,  and  give  thee  what  I  have  promised,  let  me  tell  thee  I 
shall  be  able  very  easily  to  satisfy  thy  desires  Avithout  marrying ; 

'  Prov.  167. 

*  Prov.  21.  Sancho,  as  he  almost  always  doos  when  it  is  long,  makes 
a  muddle  of  tlie  proverb  :  the  correct  form  is,  "  Wlio  lias  good  and  chooses 
evil,  let  him  not  complain  of  the  evil  that  comes  to  him." 


262  DON    QUIXOTE. 

for  before  going  into  battle  I  will  make  it  a  stipulation  that, 
if  I  come  outofit  victorious,  even  if  I  do  not  many,  they  shall 
give  me  a  portion  of  the  kingdom,  that  I  may  bestow  it  upon 
whomsoever  I  choose,  and  when  they  give  it  to  me  upon  whom 
wouldst  thou  have  me  bestow  it  l)ut  upon  thee  ?  " 

"  That  is  i)lain  speaking,"  said  Sancho  ;  ''  but  let  your  wor- 
ship take  care  to  choose  it  on  the  sea-coast,  so  that  if  I  don't 
like  the  life,  I  may  be  able  to  ship  off  my  black  vassals  and 
deal  with  them  as  I  have  said  ;  don't  mind  going  to  see  my 
lady  Dulcinea  now,  but  go  and  kill  this  giant  and  let  us  finish 
oft'  this  l)usiness;  for  by  God  it  strikes  me  it  will  be  one  of 
great  honor  and  great  profit." 

"  I  hold  thou  art  in  the  right  of  it,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Qui- 
xote, "  and  I  will  take  thy  advice  as  to  accompanying  the  prin- 
cess before  going  to  see  Dulcinea ;  but  I  counsel  thee  not  to 
say  anything  to  any  one,  or  to  those  who  are  with  us,  al)out 
what  we  have  considered  and  discussed,  for  as  Dulcinea  is  so 
decor(_)us  that  she  does  not  wish  her  thoughts  to  be  known  it  is 
not  right  that  I  or  any  one  for  me  should  disclose  them." 

"  Well  then,  if  that  be  so,"  said  Sancho,  "  how  is  it  that  your 
worship  makes  aJl  those  you  overcome  by  your  arm  go  to  ])re- 
sent  themselves  before  my  lady  Dulcinea,  this  being  the  same 
thing  as  signing  your  name  to  it  that  you  love  her  and  are  her 
lover  ?  And  as  those  who  go  must  perforce  kneel  before  her 
and  say  they  come  from  your  worship  to  submit  themselves  to 
her,  how  can  the  thoughts  of  both  of  you  be  hid  ?  " 

"  0,  how  silly  and  simple  thou  art ! "  said  Don  Quixote ; 
"  seest  thou  not,  Sancho,  that  this  tends  to  her  greater  exalta- 
tion ?  Por  thou  must  know  that  according  to  our  way  of  think- 
ing in  cliivalry,  it  is  a  high  honor  to  a  lady  to  have  many 
knights-errant  in  her  service,  whose  thoughts  never  go  beyond 
serving  her  for  her  own  sake,  and  who  look  for  no  other  reward 
for  their  great  and  true  devotion  than  that  she  should  be  will- 
ing to  accept  them  as  her  knights." 

"It  is  with  that  kind  of  love,"  said  Sancho,  "I  have  heard 
preachers  say  we  ought  to  love  our  Lord,  for  himself  alone, 
without  being  moved  by  the  hope  of  glory  or  the  fear  of  punish- 
ment ;  though  for  my  part,  I  would  rather  love  and  serve  him 
for  what  he  could  do." 

"  The  devil  take  thee  for  a  clown  !  "  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and 
what  shrewd  things  thou  sayest  at  times !  One  would  think 
thou  liadst  studied." 


CHAPTER    XXXI .  263 

"  In  faith,  then,  I  can  not  even  read,"  answered  Sancho. 

Master  Nicholas  here  called  out  to  them  to  wait  a  Avhile,  as 
they  wanted  to  halt  and  drink  at  a  little  spring  there  was  there. 
Don  Quixote  drew  up,  not  a  little  to  the  satisfaction  of  Sancho, 
for  he  was  by  this  time  weary  of  telling  so  many  lies,  and  in 
dread  of  his  master  catching  him  tripping,  for  though  he  knew 
that  Dulcinea  was  a  peasant  girl  of  El  Toboso,  he  had  never 
seen  her  in  all  his  life.  Cardenio  had  now  put  on  the  clothes 
Avhich  Dorothea  Avas  wearing  when  they  found  her,  and  though 
they  were  not  very  good,  they  were  far  better  than  those  he  put 
off.  They  dismounted  together  by  the  side  of  the  spring,  and 
Avith  what  the  curate  had  provided  himself  with  at  the  inn  they 
appeased,  though  not  very  Avell,  the  keen  appetite  they  all  of 
them  brought  with  them. 

While  they  were  so  employed  there  happened  to  come  by  a 
youth  passing  on  his  way,  who  stopping  to  examine  the  party 
at  the  spring,  the  next  moment  ran  to  Don  Quixote  and  clasp- 
ing him  round  the  legs,  began  to  weep  freely,  saying, ''  0,  seilor, 
do  you  not  know  me  ?  Look  at  me  well ;  I  am  that  lad  Andres 
that  your  worship  released  from  the  oak  tree  where  I  was  tied.'' 

Don  Quixote  recognized  him,  and  taking  his  hand  he  turned 
to  those  present  and  said  :  "  That  your  worships  nuay  see  how 
important  it  is  to  have  knights-errant  to  redress  the  wrongs 
and  injuries  done  by  tyrannical  and  wicked  men  in  this  world, 
I  may  tell  you  that  some  days  ago  passing  through  a  wood,  I 
heard  cries  and  piteous  complaints  as  of  a  person  in  pain  and 
distress  ;  I  immediately  hastened,  impelled  by  my  bounden 
duty,  to  the  quarter  whence  the  plaintive  accents  seemed  to  me 
to  proceed,  and  I  found  tied  to  an  oak  this  lad  who  now  stands 
before  you,  which  in  my  heart  I  rejoice  at,  for  his  testimony 
will  not  permit  me  to  depart  from  the  truth  in  any  particular. 
He  Avas,  I  say,  tied  to  an  oak,  naked  from  the  waist  up,  anr'  a 
clown,  Avhom  I  afterwards  found  to  be  his  master,  was  scarify- 
ing him  by  lashes  with  the  reins  of  his  mare.  As  soon  as  I 
saw  him  I  asked  the  reason  of  so  cruel  a  flagellation.  The 
boor  replied  that  he  was  flogging  him  because  he  was  his  ser- 
vant and  because  of  carelessness  that  proceeded  rather  from  dis- 
honesty than  stupidity ;  on  which  this  boy  said,  '  Seiior,  he 
flogs  me  only  because  I  ask  for  my  wages.'  The  master  made 
I  know  not  what  speeches  and  explanations,  Avhich,  though  I 
listened  to  them,  I  did  not  acce})t.  In  short,  I  compelled  the 
clown  to  unbind  him,  and  to  swear  he  would  take  him  with  him. 


264  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  pay  him  real  by  real,  and  perfumed  into  the  bargain.^  Is 
not  all  this  true,  Andres  my  son  ?  Didst  thou  not  mark  with 
what  authority  I  commanded  him,  and  with  what  humility  he 
promised  to  do  all  I  enjoined,  specified,  and  required  of  him  ? 
Answer  without  confusion  or  hesitation  ;  tell  these  gentlemen 
what  took  place,  that  they  may  see  and  observe  that  it  is  as 
great  an  advantage  as  I  say  to  have  kniglits-errant  abroad." 

"  All  that  your  worship  has  said  is  quite  true,"  answered  the 
lad;  "  but  the  end  of  the  business  turned  out  just  the  opposite 
of  what  your  worship  supposes." 

"  How  !  the  opposite  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  did  not  the 
clown  pay  thee  then  ?  " 

''  Xot  only  did  he  not  pay  me,"  replied  the  lad,  "  but  as  soon 
as  your  worship  had  passed  ox;t  of  the  wood  and  we  were  alone, 
he  tied  me  up  again  to  the  same  oak  and  gave  me  a  fresh  flog- 
ging, that  left  me  like  a  flayed  Saint  Bartholomew  ;  and  every 
stroke  he  gave  me  he  followed  up  Avith  some  jest  or  gibe  about 
having  made  a  fool  of  your  worship,  and  but  for  the  pain  I 
was  suffering  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  things  he  said.  In 
short  he  left  me  in  such  a  condition  that  I  have  been  until 
now  in  a  hospital  getting  cured  of  the  injuries  Avhich  that  ras- 
cally clown  inflicted  on  me  then  ;  for  all  which  your  Avorship 
is  to  blame  ;  for  if  you  had  gone  your  own  way  and  not  come 
where  there  was  no  call  for  you,  nor  meddled  in  other  people's 
affairs,  my  master  would  have  been  content  with  giving  me 
one  or  two  dozen  lashes,  and  would  have  then  loosed  me  and 
paid  me  what  he  owed  me  ;  but  when  your  worship  abused  him 
so  out  of  measure,  and  gave  him  so  many  hard  words,  his 
anger  was  kindled ;  and  as  he  could  not  revenge  himself  on 
you,  as  soon  as  he  saw  you  had  left  him  the  storm  burst  upon 
me  in  such  a  Avay,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  be  a  man 
again  as  long  as  I  live." 


a  ' 


The  mischief,"  said  Don  Quixote,  <'  lay  in  my  going  away ; 
for  I  should  not  have  gone  until  I  had  seen  thee  paid ;  because 
I  ought  to  have  known  well  by  long  experience  that  there  is  no 
clown  who  Avill  keep  his  word  if  he  finds  it  will  not  suit  him 
to  keep  it ;  but  thou  rememberest,  Andres,  tliat  I  swore  if  he 
did  not  pay  thee  I  would  go  and  seek  him,  and  find  him  though 
he  were  to  hide  himself  in  the  whale's  belly." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Andres ;  "  but  it  was  of  no  use." 
"Thou  shalt  see  now  Avhether  it  is  of   use   or  not,"   said 

'  See  chapter  iv.  note  1,  p.  22. 


CHAPTER    XXX L  265 

Don  Quixote  ;  and  so  saying,  he  got  up  hastily  and  bade  Sancho 
bridle  Rocinante,  who  was  browsing  while  they  were  eating. 
Dorothea  asked  him  what  he  meant  to  do.  He  replied  that  he 
meant  to  go  in  search  of  this  clown  and  chastise  him  for  such 
iniquitous  conduct,  and  see  Andres  paid  to  the  last  maravedi, 
despite  and  in  the  teeth  of  all  the  clowns  in  the  Avorld.  To 
which  she  replied  that  he  must  remember  that  in  accordance 
with  his  promise  he  coiild  not  engage  in  any  enterprise  until  he 
had  brouglit  hers  to  a  conclusion ;  and  that  as  he  knew  this 
better  than  any  one,  he  should  restrain  his  ardor  until  his  return 
■from  her  kingdom. 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  and  Andres  must  have 
patience  until  my  return  as  you  say,  seiiora ;  but  I  once  niore 
swear  and  promise  afresh  not  to  stop  until  I  have  seen  him 
avenged  and  paid." 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  those  oaths,"  said  Andres ;  "  I  would 
rather  have  now  something  to  help  me  to  get  to  Seville  than 
all  the  revenges  in  the  world :  if  you  have  here  anything  to 
eat  that  I  can  take  with  me,  give  it  me,  and  God  be  Avith  your 
worship  and  all  knights-errant ;  and  may  their  errands  turn  out 
as  well  for  themselves  as  they  have  for  me." 

Sancho  took  out  from  his  store  a  piece  of  bread  and  another 
of  cheese,  and  giving  them  to  the  lad  he  said,  "  Here,  take  this, 
brother  Andres,  for  we  have  all  of  us  a  share  in  your  mis- 
fortune." 

"  Why,  what  share  have  you  got  ?  "  asked  Andres. 

"  This  share  of  bread  and  cheese  I  am  giving  you,"  answered 
Sancho ;  "  and  God  knows  whether  I  shall  feel  the  want  of  it 
myself  or  not ;  for  I  would  have  you  know,  friend,  that  we 
squires  to  knights-errant  have  to  bear  a  great  deal  of  hmiger 
and  hard  fortune,  and  even  other  things  more  easily  felt  than 
told." 

Andres  seized  his  bread  and  cheese,  and  seeing  that  -nobody 
gave  him  anything  more,  bent  his  head,  and  took  hold  of  the 
road,  as  the  saying  is.  However,  before  leaving  he  said  to 
Don  Quixote,  "  For  the  love  of  God,  sir  knight-errant,  if  you 
ever  meet  me  again,  though  you  may  see  them  cutting  me  to 
pieces,  give  me  no  aid  or  succor,  but  leave  me  to  my  mis- 
fortune, which  will  not  be  so  great  but  that  a  greater  Avill  come 
to  me  by  being  helped  by  your  worship,  on  whom  and  all  the 
knights-errant  that  have  ever  been  born  God  send  his  curse." 

Don  Quixote  was  getting  up  to  chastise  him,  but  he  took  to 


266  DON    QUIXOTE. 

his  heels  at  such  a  pace  that  no  one  attempted  to  follow  him  ; 
and  mightily  chapfallen  was  Don  Quixote  at  the  story  of 
Andres,  and  the  others  had  to  take  great  care  to  restrain  their 
laughter  so  as  not  to  put  him  entirely  out  of  countenance. 


CHAPTEE   XXXII. 

WHICH    TREATS    OF    WHAT    BEFELL    ALL    DOX    QUIXOTE's  PARTY 

AT    THE    INN. 

Their  dainty  repast  being  finished,  they  saddled  at  once, 
and  without  any  adventure  worth  mentioning  they  reached 
next  day  the  inn,  the  object  of  Sancho  Panza's  fear  and  dread  ; 
but  though  he  Avould  have  rather  not  entered  it  there  Avas  no 
help  for  it.  The  landlady,  the  landlord,  their  daughter,  and 
Maritornes,  when  they  saw  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  coming, 
went  out  to  welcome  them  with  signs  of  hearty  satisfaction, 
which  Don  Quixote  received  with  dignity  and  gravity,  and 
bade  them  make  up  a  better  bed  for  him  than  the  last  time : 
to  which  the  landlady  replied  that  if  he  paid  better  than  he 
did  the  last  time  she  would  give  him  one  fit  for  a  prince.  Don 
Quixote  said  he  would,  so  they  made  up  a  tolerable  one  for 
him  in  the  same  garret  as  before ;  and  he  lay  down  at  once, 
being  sorely  shaken  and  in  want  of  sleep. 

No  sooner  was  the  door  shut  upon  him  than  the  landlady 
made  at  the  barber,  and  seizing  him  by  the  beard,  said,  "  By  my 
faith  you  are  not  going  to  make  a  beard  of  my  tail  any  longer ; 
you  must  give  me  back  my  tail,  for  it  is  a  shame  the  way  that 
thing  of  my  husband's  goes  tossing  about  on  the  floor  ;  I  mean 
the  comb  that  I  used  to  stick  in  my  good  tail."  But  for  all 
she  tugged  at  it  the  barber  would  not  give  it  up  until  the  licen- 
tiate told  him  to  let  her  have  it,  as  there  was  now  no  further 
occasion  for  that  stratagem,  because  he  might  declare  himself 
and  appear  in  his  own  character,  and  tell  Don  Quixote  that  he 
had  fled  to  this  inn  when  those  thieves  the  galley  slaves  robbed 
him  ;  and  should  he  ask  for  the  princess's  squire,  they  could 
tell  him  that  she  had  sent  him  on  before  her  to  give  notice  to 
the  people  of  her  kingdom  that  she  was  coming,  and  bringing 
with  her  the  deliverer  of  them  all.  On  this  the  barber  cheer- 
fully restored  the  tail  to  the  landlady,  and  at  the  same  time 


CHAPTER    XXXIT.  267 

they  returned  all  the  accessories  they  had  borrowed  to  effect 
Don  Quixote's  deliverance.  All  the  people  of  the  inn  were 
struck  with  astonishment  at  the  beauty  of  Dorothea,  and  even 
at  the  comely  figure  of  the  shepherd  Cardenio.  The  curate 
made  them  get  ready  such  fare  as  there  was  in  the  inn,  and 
the  landlord,  in  hope  of  better  payment,  served  them  up  a 
tolerably  good  dinner.  All  this  time  Don  Quixote  was  aslee]:), 
and  they  thought  it  best  not  to  awaken  him,  as  sleeping  would 
now  do  him  more  good  than  eating. 

While  at  dinner,  the  company  consisting  of  the  landlord,  his 
wife,  their  daughter,  Maritornes,  and  all  the  travellers,  they 
discussed  the  strange  craze  of  Don  Quixote  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  been  found ;  and  the  landlady  told  them  what 
had  taken  place  between  him  and  the  carrier  ;  and  then,  look- 
iuii-  round  to  see  if  Sancho  was  there,  when  she  saw  he  was 
not,  she  gave  them  the  whole  story  of  his  blanketing,  which 
they  received  with  no  little  amusement.  But  on  the  curate 
observing  that  it  was  the  books  of  chivalry  which  Don  Quixote 
had  read  that  had  turned  his  brain,  the  landlord  said,  ''  I  can 
not  understand  how  that  can  be,  for  in  truth  to  my  mind  there 
is  no  better  reading  in  the  world,  and  I  have  here  two  or  three 
of  them,  with  other  writings  that  are  the  very  life,  not  only 
of  myself  but  of  plenty  more ;  for  when  it  is  harvest-time  the 
reapers  flock  here  on  holidays,  and  there  is  always  one  among 
them  who  can  read  and  who  takes  up  one  of  these  books,  and 
we  gather  round  him,  thirty  or  more  of  us,  and  stay  listening 
to  him  Avith  a  delight  that  makes  our  gray  hairs  grow  young 
again.'  At  least  I  can  say  for  myself  that  when  I  hear  of 
what  furious  and  terrible  blows  the  knights  deliver,  I  am 
seized  with  the  longing  to  do  the  same,  and  I  would  like  to  be 
hearing  about  them  night  and  day." 

'■'■  And  I  just  as  much,"  said  the  landlady,  "  because  I  never 
have  a  quiet  moment  in  my  house  except  when  you  are  listen- 
ing to  some  one  reading ;  for  then  you  are  so  taken  up  that  for 
the  time  being  you  forget  to  scold." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Maritornes  ;  "  and,  faith,  I  relish  hear- 
ing these  things  greatly  too,  for  they  are  very  pretty ;  espe- 
cially when  they  describe  some  lady  or  another  in  the  arms  of 
her  knight  under  the  orange  trees,  and  the  duenna  who  is 
keeping  watch  for  them  half  dead  with  envy  and  fright ;  all 
this  I  say  is  as  good  as  honey." 

'  Literally,  "  Rids  us  of  a  thousand  gray  hairs." 


268  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  And  yon,  what  do  you  think,  young  lady  ?  "  said  the  curate 
turning  to  the  Landlord's  daughter. 

"  I  don't  know  indeed,  senor,"  said  she ;  "  I  listen  too,  and 
to  tell  the  truth,  though  I  do  not  understand  it,  I  like  hearing 
it;  but  it  is  not  the  blows  that  my  father  likes  that  I  like,  but 
the  laments  the  knights  utter  when  they  are  separated  from 
their  ladies ;  and  indeed  they  sometimes  make  me  weep  with 
the  compassion  I  feel  for  them." 

''  Then  you  would  console  them  if  it  was  for  you  they  wept, 
young  lady  ?  "  said  Dorothea. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do,"  said  the  girl ;  '<■  I  only 
knoAV  that  there  are  some  of  those  ladies  so  cruel  that  they 
call  their  knights  tigers  and  lions  and  a  thousand  other  foul 
names  :  and,  Jesus  !  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  folk  they  can  be, 
so  unfeeling  and  heartless,  that  rather  than  bestow  a  glance 
upon  a  worthy  man  they  leave  him  to  die  or  go  mad.  I  don't 
know  what  is  the  good  of  such  prudery ;  if  it  is  for  honor's 
sake,  why  not  marry  them  ?     That 's  all  they  want." 

''Hush,  child,"  said  the  landlady;  ''it  seems,  to  me  thou 
knowest  a  great  deal  about  these  things,  and  it  is  not  fit  for 
girls  to  know  or  talk  so  much." 

"  As  the  gentleman  asked  me,  I  could  not  help  answering 
him,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Well  then,"  said  the  curate,  "  bring  me  these  books,  senor 
landlord,  for  I  should  like  to  see  them." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  he,  and  going  into  his  own  room 
he  brought  out  an  old  valise  secured  with  a  little  chain,  on 
opening  "which  the  curate  found  in  it  three  large  books  and 
some  manuscripts  written  in  a  very  good  hand.  The  first  that 
he  opened  he  found  to  be  "  Don  Cirongilio  of  Thrace,"  and  the 
second  "  Don  Felixmarte  of  Hircania,"  and  the  other  the  "  His- 
tory of  the  Great  Captain  Gonzalo  Hernandez  de  Cordova,  with 
the  Life  of  Diego  Garcia  de  Paredes."  ^ 

When  the  curate  read  the  two  first  titles  he  looked  over  at 

'  Don  Cirongilio  de  Tracia  was  by  Bernado  de  Vargas  and  appeared  at 
Seville  in  1545:  for  Felixmarte  de  Hircania  see  Chap,  vi.,  Note  1, 
p.  33.  The  title  of  the  third  is  Crenica  del  Gran  Capitan  Gonzalo  Her- 
nandez de  Cordoba  y  Aguilar,  to  which  is  added  tlie  life  of  Diego  Garcia 
de  Paredes,  written  by  himself.  It  appeared  at  Saragossa  in  1559.  Gon- 
zalo, the  reader  need  "hardly  be  reminded,  was  the  brilliant  general  whose 
services  against  the  Moors  at  Granada  and  the  Frencli  in  Naples  were  so 
ungratefully  repaid  by  Ferdinand.  Garcia  de  Paredes  was  Gonzalo's  com- 
panion-in-arms in  both  campaigns.  His  battered  corselet  in  the  Armeria 
at  Madrid  is  as  good  as  a  ballad. 


CHAPTER    XXXII.  269 

the  barber  and  said,  "  We  want  my  friend's  housekeeper  and 
niece  here  now." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  barber,  "  I  can  do  just  as  well  to  carry  them 
to  the  yard  or  to  the  hearth,  and  there  is  a  very  good  fire 
there." 

"  What !  your  worship  would  burn  my  books  !  "  said  the 
landlord. 

"  Only  these  two,"  said  the  curate,  ''  Don  Cirongilio  and 
Felixmarte." 

"Are  my  books,  then,  heretics  or  phlegmatics  that  you  want 
to  burn  them  ?  "  said  the  landlord. 

"  Schismatics  you  mean,  friend,"  said  the  barlier,  "  not 
phlegmatics." 

"  That 's  it,"  said  the  landlord  ;  "  but  if  you  want  to  burn 
any,  let  it  be  that  about  the  Great  Captain  and  that  Diego 
Garcia ;  for  I  would  rather  have  a  child  of  mine  burnt  than 
either  of  the  others." 

"  Brother,"  said  the  curate,  "those  two  books  are  made  up 
of  lies,  and  are  full  of  folly  and  nonsense  ;  but  this  of  the 
Great  Captain  is  a  true  history,  and  contains  the  deeds  of 
Gonzalo  Hernandez  of  Cordova,  who  by  his  many  and  great 
achievements  earned  the  title  all  over  the  world  of  the  Great 
Captain,  a  famous  and  illustrious  name,  and  deserved  by  him 
alone  ;  and  this  Diego  Garcia  de  Paredes  was  a  distinguished 
knight  of  the  city  of  Trujillo  in  Estremadura,  a  most  gallant 
soldier,  and  of  such  bodily  strength  that  with  one  finger  he 
stopped  a  mill-wheel  in  full  motion  ;  and  posted  with  a  two- 
handed  sword  '  at  the  foot  of  a  bridge  he  kept  the  whole  of  an 
immense  army  from  })assing  over  it,  and  achieved  such  other 
exploits  that  if,  instead  of  his  relating  them  himself  with  the 
modesty  of  a  knight  and  of  one  writing  his  own  history,  some 
free  and  unbiased  writer  had  recorded  them,  they  would  have 
thrown  into  the  shade  all  the  deeds  of  the  Hectors,  Achilleses, 
and  Rolands.- 

"  Tell  that  to  my  father,"  said  the  landlord.  "  There  's  a 
thing  to  be  astonished  at !  Stopping  a  mill-wheel  !  By  God 
your  worship  should  read  what  I  have  read  of  Felixmarte  of 
Hircania,  how  with  one  single  backstroke  he  cleft  five  giants 
asunder  through  the  middle  as  if  they  had  been  made  of  bean- 

'  i.e.  tlie  montante^  marvellous  specimens  of  which  may  be  seen  in  the 
Armeria  at  Madrid. 

'^  Neither  of  these  feats  is  mentioned  in  the  memoir  of  (rarciade  Paredes 
appended  to  the  life  of  the  Great  Captain. 


270  DON   QUIXOTE. 

pods  like  tlae  little  friars  the  children  make  ;  ^  and  another 
time  he  attacked  a  very  great  and  powerful  army,  in  which 
there  were  more  than  a  million  six  hundred  thousand  soldiers, 
all  armed  from  head  to  foot,  and  he  routed  them  all  as  if  they 
had  been  flocks  of  sheep.  And  then,  what  do  you  say  to  the 
good  Cirongilio  of  Thrace,  that  was  so  stout  and  bold  ;  as  may 
be  seen  in  the  book,  where  it  is  related  that  as  he  was  sailing 
along  a  river  there  came  up  out  of  the  midst  of  the  water  against 
liim  a  fiery  serpent,  and  he,  as  soon  as  he  saw  it,  flung  himself 
upon  it  and  got  astride  of  its  scaly  shoulders,  and  squeezed  its 
throat  with  both  hands  with  such  force  that  the  serpent,  find- 
ing he  was  throttling  it,  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  itself  sink 
to  the  bottom  of  the  river,  carrying  with  it  the  knight  who 
would  not  let  go  his  hold  ;  and  when  they  got  down  there  he 
found  himself  among  palaces  and  gardens  so  pretty  that  it  was 
a  wonder  to  see  ;  and  then  the  serpent  changed  itself  into  an 
old  ancient  man,  who  told  him  such  things  as  were  never 
heard.  Hold  your  peace,  senor  ;  for  if  you  were  to  hear  this 
you  would  go  mad  with  delight.  A  couple  of  figs  for  your 
Great  Captain  and  your  Diego  Garcia  I  " 

Hearing  this  Dorothea  said  in  a  whisper  to  Cardenio,  ''  Our 
landlord  is  almost  fit  to  play  a  second  part  to  Don  Quixote." 

^'  I  think  so,"  said  Cardenio,  "  for  as  he  shows,  he  accepts  it 
as  a  certainty  that  everything  those  books  relate  took  place 
exactly  as  it  is  written  down ;  and  the  barefooted  friars  them- 
selves would  not  persuade  him  to  the  contrary." 

''  But  consider,  brother,"  said  the  curate  once  more,  "  there 
never  was  any  Felixmarte  of  Hii'cania  in  the  world,  nor  any 
('irongilio  of  Thrace,  or  any  of  the  other  knights  of  the  same 
sort,  that  the  books  of  chivalry  talk  of  ;  the  whole  thing  is 
the  fabrication  and  invention  of  idle  Avits,  devised  by  them 
for  the  piirpose  you  describe  of  beguiling  the  time,  as  your 
reapers  do  when  they  read  :  for  I  swear  to  you  in  all  serious- 
ness there  never  were  any  such  knights  in  the  world,  and  no 
such  exploits  or  nonsense  ever  happened  anywhere." 

"  Try  that  bone  on  another  dog,"  ^  said  the  landlord ;  "  as  if  I 
did  not  know  how  many  make  five,  and  where  my  shoe  pinches 
me  ;  ^  don't  think  to  feed  me  with  pap,  for  by  God  I  am  no 
fool.  It  is  a  good  joke  for  your  worship  to  try  and  persuade 
me  that  everything  these  good  books  say  is  nonsense  and  lies, 

'  Made  by  cutting  away  part  of  the  pod  so  as  to  expose  the  upper  bean 
which  looks  something  like  a  friar's  head  in  the  recess  of  his  cowl. 
2  Prov.  181.  3  prov.  2r>2. 


en  AFTER    XXXII.  271 

and  they  printed  by  the  license  of  the  Lords  of  the  Royal 
Council,  as  if  they  were  people  who  would  allow  such  a  lot  of 
lies  to  be  printed  all  together,  and  so  many  battle  and  enchant- 
ments that  they  take  away  one's  senses." 

"  I  have  told  you,  friend,"  said  the  curate,  *'  that  this  is  done 
to  divert  our  idle  thoughts ;  and  as  in  well-ordered  states 
games  of  chess,  fives,  and  billiards  are  allowed  for  the  diver- 
sion of  those  who  do  not  care,  or  are  not  obliged,  or  are  unalde 
to  work,  so  books  of  this  kind  are  allowed  to  be  printed,  on  the 
supposition  that,  what  indeed  is  the  truth,  there  can  be  nobody 
so  ignorant  as  to  take  any  of  them  for  true  stories  ;  and  if  it 
were  permitted  me  now,  and  the  present  company  desired  it,  I 
could  say  something  about  the  qualities  books  of  chivalry  sIkjuUI 
possess  to  be  good  ones,  that  would  be  to  the  advantage  and 
even  to  the  taste  of  some ;  but  I  hope  the  time  will  come  when 
I  can  communicate  my  ideas  to  some  one  who  may  be  able  to 
mend  matters  ;  and  in  the  meantime,  sefior  landlord,  believe 
what  I  have  said,  and  take  your  books,  and  make  up  your 
mind  about  their  truth  or  falsehood,  and  much  good  may  they 
do  you  ;  and  God  grant  you  may  not  fall  lame  of  the  same  foot 
your  guest  Don  Quixote  h;dts  on." 

"  No  fear  of  that,"  returned  the  landlord  ;  ''  I  shall  not  be  so 
mad  as  to  make  a  knight-errant  of  myself  ;  for  I  see  well  enough 
that  things  are  not  noAV  as  they  used  to  be  in  those  days,  when 
they  say  those  famous  knights  roamed  about  the  world." 

Sancho  had  made  his  appearance  in  the  middle  of  this  (con- 
versation, and  he  was  very  much  troul)led  and  cast  down  by 
what  he  heard  said  about  knights-errant  being  now  no  longer 
in  vogue,  and  all  books  of  chivalry  being  folly  and  lies ;  and  he 
resolved  in  his  heart  to  wait  and  see  what  came  of  this  journey 
of  his  master's,  and  if  it  did  not  turn  out  as  happily  as  his 
master  expected,  he  determined  to  leave  him  and  go  back  to 
his  wife  and  children  and  his  ordinary  labor. 

The  landlord  was  carrying  away  the  valise  and  the  books, 
but  the  curate  said  to  him,  "Wait;  I  want  to  see  what  those 
papers  are  that  are  written  in  such  a  good  hand."  The  land- 
lord taking  them  out  handed  them  to  him  to  read,  and  he  per- 
ceived they  were  a  work  of  about  eight  sheets  of  manuscript, 
with,  in  large  letters  at  the  beginning,  the  title  of  "  Novel  of 
the  Ill-advised  Curiosity."  ^     The  curate  read  three  or  four  lines 

^Curious  Impertinent^  Shelton's  barbarous  translation  of  Cnrioso 
Impertinente,  is  something  worse  tluui  nonsense,   for  Cnrioso  is  here  a 


272  DON    QUIXOTE. 

to  himself,  and  said,  "  I  must  say  tlie  title  of  this  novel  does 
not  seem  to  me  a  bad  one,  and  I  feel  an  inclination  to  read  it 
all."  To  which  the  landlord  replied,  "  Then  your  reverence 
will  do  well  to  read  it,  for  I  can  tell  you  that  some  guests  who 
have  read  it  here  have  been  mi;ch  pleased  with  it,  and'  have 
begged  it  of  me  very  earnestly  ;  but  I  would  not  give  it,  mean- 
ing to  return  it  to  the  person  who  forgot  the  valise,  books,  and 
papers  here,  for  maybe  he  will  return  here  some  time  or  other ; 
and  though  I  know  I  shall  miss  the  books,  faith  I  mean  to 
return  them ;  for  though  I  am  an  innkeeper,  still  I  am  a 
Christian." 

"  You  are  very  right,  friend,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  biit  for  all 
that,  if  the  novel  pleases  me  you  must  let  me  copy  it." 

'•  With  all  my  heart,''  replied  the  host. 

While  they  were  talking  Cardenio  had  taken  up  the  novel 
and  begun  to  read  it,  and  forming  the  same  opinion  of  it  as  the 
evirate,  he  begged  him  to  read  it  so  that  they  might  all  hear  it. 

"  I  would  read  it,"  said  the  curate,  ''  if  the  time  would  not 
be  better  spent  in  sleeping  than  in  reading." 

"  It  will  be  rest  enough  for  me,"  said  Dorothea,  "  to  while 
away  the  time  by  listening  to  some  tale,  for  my  spirits  are  not 
yet  tranquil  enough  to  let  me  sleep  when  it  would  be  season- 
able." 

"  Well  then,  in  that  case,"  said  the  curate,  "  I  will  read  it, 
if  it  were  only  out  of  curiosity  ;  perhaps  it  may  contain  some- 
thing pleasant." 

Master  Nicholas  added  his  entreaties  to  the  same  effect,  and 
Sancho  too  ;  seeing  which,  and  considering  that  he  would  give 
pleasure  to  all,  and  receive  it  himself,  the  curate  said,  "  Well 
then,  attend  to  me  every  one,  for  the  novel  begins  thus." 

substantive.  There  is,  of  course,  no  concise  Englisli  translation  for  the 
title;  the  nearest  approacli  to  one  would  be,  perhaps.  The  inquisitive  man 
who  had  no  business  to  be  so. 


CHAPTER  xxxni.  273 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


IN-    WHICH    IS    RELATED     THE    NOVEL    OF     "  ILL-ADVISED 


CURIOSITY." 


In  Florence,  a  rich  and  famous  city  of  Italy  in  tlie  province  called 
Tuscany,  there  lived  two  gentlemen  of  wealth  and  quality,  Anselmo 
and  Lothario,  such  great  friends  that  by  way  of  distinction  they  were 
called  by  all  that  loiew  them  "The  two  Friends/'  They  were  un- 
married, young,  of  the  same  age  and  of  the  same  tastes,  which  was 
enough  to  account  for  the  reciprocal  friendship  between  them.  An- 
selmo, it  is  true,  was  somewliat  more  inclined  to  seek  pleasure  in 
love  than  Lothario,  tor  whom  the  pleasures  of  the  chase  had  more 
attraction  ;  but  on  occasion  Anselmo  would  forego  his  own  tastes  to 
yield  to  those  of  Lothario,  and  Lothario  would  surrender  his  to  fall 
in  with  those  of  Anselmo,  and  in  this  way  their  inclinations  kept 
pace  one  with  the  other  with  a  concord  so  perfect  that  the  best  regu- 
lated clock  could  not  surpass  it. 

Anselmo  was  deep  in  love  with  a  high-born  and  beautiful  maiden 
of  the  same  city,  the  daughter  of  parents  so  estimable,  and  so  es- 
timable herself,  that  he  resolved,  with  the  approval  of  his  friend 
Lothario,  without  whom  he  did  nothing,  to  ask  her  of  them  in 
marriage,  and  did  so,  Lothai'io  being  the  bearer  of  the  demand,  and 
conducting  the  negotiation  so  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  friend 
that  in  a  short  time  he  was  in  jiossession  of  the  object  of  his  desires, 
and  Camilla  so  ha[>py  in  having  won  Anselmo  for  her  husband,  that 
she  gave  thanks  unceasingly  to  Heaven  and  to  Lothario,  by  whose 
means  such  good  fortune  had  fallen  to  her.  The  first  lew  days,  those 
of  a  wedding  being  usually  days  of  merry-making,  Lothario  fre- 
quented his  friend  Anselmo's  house  as  he  had  been  wont,  striving  to 
do  honor  to  him  and  to  the  occasion,  and  to  gratify  him  in  every  way 
he  could;  but  w^lien  the  wedding  days  were  over  and  the  succession 
of  visits  and  congratulations  had  slackened,  he  began  purposely  to 
leave  otf  going  to  the  house  of  Anselmo,  for  it  seemed  to  him,  as  it 
naturally  would  to  all  men  of  sense,  that  friends'  houses  ou^ht  not 
to  be  visited  after  marriage  with  the  same  frequency  as  in  their 
masters'  bachelor  days  :  because,  though  true  and  genuine  friendship 
can  not  and  should  not  be  in  any  way  suspicious,  still  a  married 
man's  honor  is  a  thing  of  such  delicacy  that  it  is  held  liable  to  injury 
from  brothers,  much  more  from  friends.  Anselmo  remarked  the 
cessation  of  Lothario's  visits,  and  complained  of  it  to  him,  saying 
that  if  he  had  known  that  marriage  was  to  keep  him  from  enjoying 
his  society  as  he  used,  he  would  have  never  married  ;  and  that,  if  by 
the  thorough  harmony  that  subsisted  between  them  while  he  was  a 
bachelor  they  had  earned  such  a  sweet  name  as  that  of  "  The  two 
Friends,"  he  should  not  allow  a  title  so  rare  and  so  delightful  to  be 
lost  through  a  needless  anxiety  to  act  circumspectly ;  and  so  he 
entreated  him,  if  such  a  phrase  was  allowable  between  them,  to 
Vol.  I.  —  18 


274  DON    QUIXOTE. 

be  once  more  master  of  his  house  and  to  come  in  and  go  out  as  for- 
merly, assuring  him  that  his  wife  Camilhi  had  no  other  desire  or 
inclination  than  that  Avhich  he  would  wish  her  to  have,  and  that 
knowing  how  sincerely  they  loved  one  another  she  was  grieved  to 
see  such  coldness  in  him. 

To  all  this  and  much  more  that  Anselmo  said  to  Lothario  to  per- 
suade him  to  come  to  his  house  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing, 
Lothario  replied  with  so  much  prudence,  sense,  and  judgment,  that 
Anselmo  was  satisfied  of  his  friend's  good  Intentions,  and  it  was 
agreed  that  on  two  days  in  the  week,  and  on  holidays,  Lothario 
should  come  to  dine  with  him  ;  but  though  this  arrangement  was 
made  between  them  Lothai'io  resolved  to  observe  it  no  further  than 
he  considered  to  be  in  accordance  with  the  honor  of  his  friend,  whose 
good  name  was  more  to  him  than  his  own.  He  said,  and  justly,  that 
a  married  man  ujion  whom  Heaven  had  bestowed  a  beautiful  wife 
should  consider  as  carefully  what  friends  he  brought  to  his  house  as 
what  female  friends  his  wife  associated  with,  for  wiiat  can  not  be 
done  or  arranged  in  the  market-place,  in  church,  at  public  festivals 
or  at  stations  '  (opportunities  that  husbands  cannot  always  deny  their 
wives),  may  be  easily  managed  in  the  house  of  the  female  friend  or 
relative  in  whom  most  confidence  is  reposed.  Lothai'io  said,  too, 
that  every  married  man  should  have  some  friend  who  would  point 
out  to  him  any  negligence  he  might  be  guilty  of  in  his  conduct,  for 
it  will  sometimes  happen  that  owing  to  the  deep  aifection  the  hus- 
l^and  bears  his  wife  either  he  does  not  caution  her,  or,  not  to  vex 
her,  refrains  fi'om  tellin'g  her  to  do  or  not  to  do  certain  things,  doing 
or  avoiding  which  may  be  a  matter  of  honor  or  reproach  to  him  ;  and 
errors  of  this  kind  he  could  easily  correct  if  warned  by  a  friend, 
But  where  is  such  a  friend  to  be  found  as  Lothario  would  have,  so 
judicious,  so  loyal,  and  so  true? 

Of  a  truth  I  know  not ;  Lothario  alone  was  such  a  one,  for  witli  the 
utmost  care  and  vigilance  he  watched  over  the  honor  of  his  friend, 
and  strove  to  diminish,  cut  down,  and  reduce  the  number  of  (hiys  for 
ofoino'  to  his  house  according:  to  their  ao;reement,  lest  the  visits  of  a 
young  man,  wealthy,  high-born,  and  with  the  attractions  he  was  con- 
scious of  possessing,  at  the  house  of  a  woman  as  beautiful  as  Camilla, 
should  be  regarded  with  suspicion  by  the  inquisitive  and  malicious 
eyes  of  the  idle  public.  For  though  his  integrity  and  reputation 
mio-ht  bridle  slanderous  tong^ues,  still  he  was  unwillino;  to  hazard 
cither  his  own  good  name  or  that  of  his  friend ;  and  for  this  reason 
most  of  the  days  agreed  upon  he  devoted  to  some  other  business 
which  he  pretended  was  unavoidable  ;  so  that  a  great  portion  of  the 
day  was  taken  up  with  complaints  on  one  side  and  excuses  on  the 
other.  It  happened,  how^ever,  that  on  one  occasion  when  the  two 
were  strolling  together  through  a  meadow  outside  the  city,  Anselmo 
addressed  the  following  words  to  Lothario. 

"  Thou  mayest  suppose,  Lothario  my  friend,  that  I  am  unable  to 

'  Estaciones  —  attendances  at  church  for  iirivate  devotion  at  other  hours 
than  those  of  the  celebration  of  the  Mass.  Among  tlie  scenes  of  the  Ital- 
ian and  Spanish  tales  of  intrigue  the  church  plays  a  leading  part. 


CHAPTER    XXX I  IT.  275 

give  .sulHuient  thanks  for  the  favors  God  has  rendered  me  in  making 
me  the  son  of  snch  parents  as  mine  were,  and  bestowing  upon  me 
with  no  niggard  hand  what  are  called  the  gifts  of  natiiit*  as  wcUl  as 
those  of  fortune,  and  above  all  for  what  he  has  done  in  giving  me 
thee  for  a  friend  and  Camilla  for  a  wife  —  two  treasures  that  1  value, 
if  not  as  highly  as  I  ought,  at  least  as  highly  as  I  am  able.  And  3'et, 
kvith  all  these  good  things,  which  are  commonly  all  that  men  need 
to  enable  them  to  live  happily,  I  am  the  most  discontented  and  dis- 
satisfied man  in  the  whole  world ;  for,  1  know  not  how  long  since,  I 
have  been  harassed  and  oppressed  by  a  desire  so  strange  and  so 
unusual,  that  I  wonder  at  myself  and  blame  and  chide  myself  when 
1  am  alone,  and  strive  to  stifle  it  and  hide  it  from  my  own  thoughts, 
and  with  no  better  success  than  if  I  were  endeavoring  deliberately  to 
publish  it  to  all  the  world;  and  as,  in  shoi't,  it  must  come  out,  I 
would  confide  it  to  thy  safe  keeping,  feeling  sui'e  that  by  this  means, 
and  by  thy  readiness  as  a  true  friend  to  atford  me  relief,  I  shall  soon 
find  myself  freed  from  the  distress  it  causes  me,  and  that  thy  care 
will  give  me  happiness  in  the  same  degree  as  my  own  folly  has 
caused  me  misery." 

The  words  of  Anselmo  struck  Lothario  with  astonishment,  unable 
as  he  was  to  conjecture  the  purport  of  such  a  lengthy  i^relude  and 
preamble ;  and  though  he  strove  to  imagine  what  desire  it  could  be 
that  so  troubled  his  friend,  his  conjectures  were  all  far  from  the 
truth,  and  to  relieve  the  anxiety  which  this  perplexity  was  causing 
him,  he  told  him  he  was  doing  a  fiagraiit  injustice  to  their  great 
friendship  in  seeking  circuitous  methods  of  confiding  to  him  his 
most  hidden  thoughts,  for  he  well  knew  he  might  reckon  upon  his 
counsel  in  diverting  them,  or  his  help  in  carrying  them  into  eflect. 

"  That  is  the  truth,"  replied  Anselmo,  "  and  relying  upon  that 
I  will  tell  thee,  friend  Lothario,  that  tiie  desire  which  harasses  me  is 
that  of  knowing  whether  my  wife  Camilla  is  as  good  and  as  i^erfect 
as  I  think  her  to  be ;  and  I  can  not  satisfy  myself  of  the  truth  on  this 
point  except  by  testing  her  in  such  a  way  that  the  trial  may  prove 
the  pui'ity  of  her  virtue  as  the  fire  proves  that  of  gold  ;  because  I  am 
persuaded,  my  friend,  that  a  woman  is  virtuous  only  in  2>roportion 
as  she  is  or  is  not  tempted ;  and  that  she  alone  is  strong  who  does 
not  yield  to  the  promises,  gifts,  teai's,  and  importunities  of  earnest 
lovers  ;  for  what  thanks  does  a  woman  deserve  for  being  good  if  no 
one  urges  her  to  be  bad,  and  what  wonder  is  it  that  she  is  reserved 
and  circumspect  to  whom  no  opportunity  is  given  of  going  wrong, 
and  wlio  knows  she  has  a  husband  that  will  take  her  life  the  first 
time  he  detects  her  in  an  impropriety?  I  do  not  therefore  hold  her 
who  is  virtuous  through  fear  or  want  of  opportunity  in  the  same 
estimation  as  her  who  comes  out  of  temptation  and  trial  with  a 
crown  of  victory ;  and  so,  for  these  reasons  and  many  others  that  I 
could  give  thee  to  justify  and  support  the  opinion  I  hold,  I  am 
desirous  that  my  Avife  Camilla  should  pass  this  crisis,  and  be  refined 
and  tested  by  the  fire  of  finding  herself  wooed  and  solicited,  and  by 
one  worthy  to  set  his  affections  upon  her ;  and  if  she  comes  out,  as  1 
know  she  will,  victorious  from  this  struggle,  I  shall  look  upon  my 


276  DON    QUIXOTE. 

good  fortune  as  unequalled,  I  shall  be  able  to  say  that  the  cup  of 
my  desire  is  full,  and  that  the  virtuous  woman  of  whom  the  sage 
says,  '  Who  shall  find  her  ? '  '  has  fallen  to  my  lot.  And  if  the  result 
be  the  contrary  of  what  I  expect,  in  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
I  have  been  right  in  my  opinion,  I  shall  bear  without  complaint  the 
pain  which  my  so  dearly  bought  experience  will  naturally  cause  me. 
And,  as  nothing  of  all  thou  wilt  urge  in  opposition  to  my  wish  will 
avail  to  keep  me  from  carrj'ing  it  into  eft'ect,  it  is  my  desire,  friend 
Lothario,  that  thou  shouldst  consent  to  become  the  instrument  for 
effecting  this  purpose  that  I  am  bent  upon,  for  I  Avill  afford  thee 
opportunities  to  that  end,  and  nothing  shall  be  wanting  that  I  may 
think  necessary  for  the  jjursuit  of  a  virtuous,  honorable,  modest,  and 
hio:h-minded  woman.  And  among  other  reasons,  I  am  induced  to 
intrust  this  arduous  task  to  thee  by  the  consideration  that  if  Camilla 
be  conquered  by  thee  the  conquest  will  not  be  pushed  to  extremes, 
but  only  far  enough  to  account  that  accomplished  Avhich  from  a 
sense  of  honor  will  be  left  undone ;  thus  I  shall  not  be  wronged  in 
anything  more  than  intention,  and  my  wrong  will  remain  buried  in 
the  integrity  of  thy  silence,  which  I  know  well  will  be  as  lasting  as 
that  of  tleath  in  what  concerns  me.  If,  therefore,  thou  wouldst  have 
me  enjoy  what  can  be  called  life,  thou  wilt  at  once  engage  in  this 
love  struggle,  not  lukewarmly  nor  slothfully,  but  with  the  energy 
and  zeal  that  my  desire  demands,  and  with  the  loyalty  our  friendship 
assures  me  of." 

Such  were  the  words  Anselmo  addressed  to  Lothario,  who  listened 
to  them  with  such  attention  that,  excejat  to  say  what  has  been  already 
mentioned,  he  did  not  open  his  lips  until  the  other  had  finished. 
Then  perceiving  that  he  had  no  more  to  say,  after  regarding  him 
for  a  while,  as  one  would  regard  something  never  before  seen  that 
excited  wonder  and  amazement,  he  said  to  him,  "  I  can  not  persuade 
myself,  Anselmo  my  friend,  that  what  thou  hast  said  to  me  is  not  in 
jest;  if  1  thought  that  thou  wert  speaking  seriously  I  would  not 
have  allowed  thee  to  go  so  far ;  so  as  to  put  a  stop  to  thy  long 
harangue  by  not  listening  to  thee.  I  verily  suspect  that  either  thou 
dost  not  know  me,  or  I  do  not  know  thee ;  but  no,  I  know  well 
thou  art  Anselmo,  and  thou  knowest  that  I  am  Lothario ;  the  mis- 
fortune is,  it  seems  to  me,  that  thou  art  not  the  Anselmo  thou  wert, 
and  must  have  thought  that  I  am  not  the  Lothario  I  should  be ;  for 
the  things  that  thou  hast  said  to  me  are  not  those  of  that  Anselmo 
Avho  was  my  friend,  nor  are  those  that  thou  demandest  of  me  what 
should  be  asked  of  the  Lothario  thou  knowest.  True  friends  will 
prove  their  friends  and  make  use  of  them,  as  a  poet  has  said,  usque 
ad  aras ;  whereby  he  meant  that  they  will  not  make  use  of  their 
friendship  in  things  that  are  contrary  to  God's  will.  If  this,  then, 
was  a  heathen's  -  feeling  about  friendship,  how  much  more  should 
it  be  a  Christian's,  who  knows  that  the  divine  must  not  be  forfeited 
for  the  sake  of  any  human  friendship  ?     And  if  a  friend  should  go 

'  "Who  can  find  a  virtuous  woman?  for  her  price  is  far  above  rubies." 
Proverbs  xxxi.  10. 
-  i.e.  Pericles,  in  Plutarch  on  "  False  Shame." 


CIIAPTER    XXXIII.  277 

so  far  as  to  put  aside  his  duty  to  Heaven  to  fulfil  his  duty  to  his 
friend,  it  should  not  be  in  matters  that  are  trifling  or  of  little  mo- 
ment, but  in  such  as  affect  the  friend's  life  and  honor.  Now  tell 
me,  Anselmo,  in  which  of  these  two  art  thou  imperilled,  that  I 
should  hazard  myself  to  gratify  thee,  and  do  a  thing  so  detestable  as 
that  thou  seekest  of  me?  Neither  forsooth ;  on  the  contrary,  thou 
dost  ask  of  me,  so  far  as  I  understand,  to  strive  and  labor  to  rob 
thee  of  honor  and  life,  and  to  rob  myself  of  them  at  the  same  time ; 
for  if  T  take  away  thy  honor  it  is  plain  I  take  away  thy  life,  as  a  man 
without  honor  is  worse  than  dead;  and  being  the  instrument,  as  thou 
wilt  have  it  so,  of  so  much  wrong  to  thee,  shall  not  I,  too,  be  left 
vs^ithout  honor,  and  consequently  without  life?  Listen  to  me, 
Anselmo  my  friend,  and  be  not  impatient  to  answer  me  until  I  have 
said  what  occurs  to  me  touching  the  object  of  thy  desire,  for  there 
will  be  time  enough  left  for  thee  to  reply  and  for  me  to  hear." 
"  Be  it  so,"  said  Anselmo,  "  say  what  thou  wilt." 
Lothario  then  went  on  to  say,  "  It  seems  to  me,  Anselmo,  that 
thine  is  Just  now  the  temper  of  mind  which  is  always  that  of  the 
Moors,  who  can  never  be  brought  to  see  the  error  of  their  creed  by 
tjuotations  from  the  Holy  Scriptures,  or  by  reasons  which  depend 
upon  the  examination  of  the  imderstanding  or  are  founded  upon 
the  articles  of  faith,  but  must  have  examples  that  are  palpable,  easy, 
intelligible,  capable  of  proof,  not  admitting  of  doubt,  with  mathe- 
matical demonstrations  that  can  not  be  denied,  like,  '  If  equals  be 
taken  from  equals,  the  reinainders  are  equal : '  and  if  they  do  not 
understand  this  in  words,  and  indeed  they  do  not,  it  has  to  be  shown 
to  them  with  the  hands,  and  put  before  their  eyes,  and  even  with  all 
this  no  one  succeeds  in  convincing  them  of  the  truth  of  our  holy 
religion.  This  same  mode  of  proceeding  I  shall  have  to  adopt  with 
thee,  for  the  desire  which  has  sprung  up  in  thee  is  so  absurd  and 
remote  from  everything  that  has  a  semblance  of  reason,  that  I  feel 
it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to  employ  it  in  reasoning  with  liiy  sim- 
plicity, for  at  ^^resent  I  will  call  it  by  no  other  name  ;  and  I  am  even 
tempted  to  leave  thee  in  thy  folly  as  a  punishment  for  thy  pernicious 
desire ;  but  the  friendship  I  bear  thee,  which  will  not  allow  mn  to 
desert  tliee  in  such  manifest  danger  of  destruction,  keeps  me  from 
dealing  so  harshly  by  thee.  And  that  thou  mayest  clearly  see  this, 
say,  Anselmo,  hast  thou  not  told  me  that  I  must  force  my  suit  upon 
a  modest  woman,  decoy  one  that  is  virtuous,  make  overtures  to  one 
that  is  pure-minded,  pay  court  to  one  that  is  prudent  ?  Yes,  thou 
hast  told  me  so.  Then,  if  thou  knowest  that  thou  hast  a  wife, 
modest,  virtuous,  pure-minded,  and  prudent,  what  is  it  that  thou 
seekest?  And  if  thou  believest  tluit  she  will  come  forth  victorious 
from  all  my  attacks —  as  doubtless  she  would  —  what  higher  titles 
than  those  she  possesses  now  dost  thou  think  thou  canst  bestow  upon 
her  then,  or  in  what  will  she  be  better  then  than  she  is  now  ?  Either 
thou  dost  not  hold  her  to  be  what  thou  sayest,  or  thou  knowest  not 
what  thou  dost  demand.  If  thou  dost  not  hold  her  to  be  what  thou 
sayest,  why  dost  thou  seek  to  prove  her  instead  of  treating  her  as 
guilty  in  the  way  that  may  seem  best  to  thee  ?  but  if  she  be  as 


278  DON    QUIXOTE. 

virtuous  as  thou  believest,  it  is  an  uncalled-for  proceeding  to  make  trial 
of  truth  itself,  for,  after  trial,  it  will  but  be  in  the  same  estimation 
as  before.  Thus,  then,  it  is  conclusive  tliat  to  attempt  things  from 
which  harm  rather  than  advantage  may  come  to  us  is  the  part  of 
unreasoning  and  recisless  minds,  more  especially  when  they  are 
things  which  we  ai'e  not  forced  or  compelled  to  attempt,  and  Avhich 
show  from  afar  that  it  is  plainly  madness  to  attempt  them. 

"  Difficulties  arc  attcmjjted  either  for  the  sake  of  God  or  for  the 
sake  of  the  world,  or  for  both  ;  those  undertaken  for  God's  sake  are 
those  which  the  saints  undertake  when  they  attempt  to  live  the  lives 
of  angels  in  human  bodies ;  those  undertaken  for  the  sake  of  the 
world  are  those  of  the  men  who  traverse  such  a  vast  expanse  of 
water,  such  a  variety  of  climates,  so  many  strange  countries,  to 
acquire  what  are  called  the  blessings  of  fortune ;  and  those  under- 
taken for  the  sake  of  God  and  the  world  together  are  those  of  brave 
soldiers,  who  no  sooner  do  they  see  in  the  enemy's  wall  a  breach  as 
wide  as  a  cannon  ball  could  make,  than,  casting  aside  all  fear,  with- 
out hesitating,  or  heeding  the  manifest  peril  that  threatens  them, 
borne  onward  by  the  desire  of  defending  their  faith,  their  counti-y. 
and  their  king,  they  fling  themselves  dauntlessly  into  the  midst  of 
the  thousand  opposing  deaths  that  await  them.  Such  are  the  things 
that  men  are  wont  to  attempt,  and  there  is  honor,  glory,  gain,  in 
attempting  them,  however  full  of  difficulty  and  peril  they  may  be ; 
but  that  which  thou  sayest  it  is  thy  wish  to  attempt  and  carry  out 
will  not  win  thee  the  glory  of  God  nor  the  blessings  of  fortune  nor 
fame  among  men  ;  for  even  if  the  issue  be  as  thou  wouldst  have  it, 
thou  wilt  be  no  happier,  richer,  or  more  honored  than  thou  art  this 
moment;  and  if  it  be  otherwise  thou  Avilt  be  reduced  to  misery 
greater  than  can  be  imagined,  for  then  it  will  avail  thee  nothing  to 
reflect  that  no  one  is  aware  of  the  misfortune  that  has  befallen  thee ; 
it  will  suffice  to  torture  and  crush  thee  that  thou  knowest  it  thyself. 
And  in  confirmation  of  the  truth  of  what  I  say,  let  me  repeat  to  thee 
a  stanza  made  by  the  famous  poet  Luigi  Tansillo  at  the  end  of  the 
first  part  of  his  'Tears  of  Saint  Peter,'  which  says  thus: 

The  anguish  and  the  shame  but  greater  grew 

In  Peter's  heart  as  morning  slowly  came ; 
No  eye  was  there  to  see  him,  well  lie  knew, 

Yet  he  himself  was  to  himself  a  shame ; 
Exposed  to  all  men's  gaze,  or  screened  from  view, 

A  noble  heart  will  feel  the  pang  the  same ; 
A  jirey  to  shame  the  sinning  soul  will  be, 
Though  none  but  heaven  ami  earth  its  shame  can  see. 

Thus  by  keeping  it  secret  thou  wilt  not  escape  thy  sorrow,  but  rather 
thou  Avilt  shed  tears  unceasingly,  if  not  tears  of  the  eyes,  tears  of 
blood  from  the  heart,  like  those  shed  b}-  that  simple  doctor  our  poet 
tells  us  of,  that  tried  the  test  of  the  cup,  which  the  wise  Rinaldo, 
better  advised,   refused  to   do;'  for  though  this  may  be  a  poetic 

'  "  Our  poet  "  was,  of  course,  Ariosto  ;  but  Cervantes    has  confounded 
two  different  stories  in  Canto  43.     It  was  not  the  doctor  but  a  cavalier, 


CHAPTER    XXXIII.  279 

fiction  it  contains  a  moral  lesson  worthy  of  attention  and  study  and 
imitation.  JNIoreover  by  what  I  am  about  to  say  to  thee  thou  wilt  be 
led  to  see  the  great  error  thou  vvouldst  commit. 

"Tell  me,  Anselmo,  if  Heaven  or  good  fortune  had  made  thee 
master  and  lawful  owner  of  a  diamond  of  the  finest  quality,  with  the 
excellence  and  purity  of  which  all  the  lapidaries  tiiat  had  seen  it 
had  been  satisfied,  saying  with  one  voice  and  common  consent  that 
in  purity,  quality,  and  fineness,  it  was  all  that  a  stone  of  the  kind 
could  possil)ly  be,  thou  thj'self  too  being  of  the  same  belief,  as 
knowing  nothing  to  the  contrary ;  would  it  be  reasonable  in  thee  to 
desire  to  take  that  diamond  and  place  it  between  an  anvil  and  a 
hammer,  and  by  mere  force  of  blows  and  strength  of  arm  try  if  it 
were  as  hard  and  as  fine  as  they  said?  And  if  thou  didst,  and  if  the 
stone  should  resist  so  silly  a  test,  that  would  add  nothing  to  its  value 
or  reputation  ;  and  if  it  were  broken,  as  it  might  be,  would  not  all 
be  lost?  Undoubtedly  it  would,  leaving  its  owner  to  be  rated  as  a 
fool  in  the  opinion  of  all.  Consider,  then,  Anselmo  my  friend,  that 
Camilla  is  a  diamond  of  the  finest  quality  as  well  in  thy  estimation 
as  in  that  of  others,  and  that  it  is  contrary  to  reason  to  expose  her 
to  the  risk  of  being  broken  ;  for  if  she  remain  intact  she  can  not  rise 
to  a  higher  value  than  she  now  possesses ;  and  if  she  give  way  and 
be  unable  to  resist,  bethink  thee  now  how  thou  wilt  be  deprived  of 
her,  and  with  what  good  reason  thou  wilt  complain  of  thyself  for 
having  been  the  cause  of  her  I'uin  and  thine  own.  Remember  there 
is  no  jewel  in  the  world  so  precious  as  a  chaste  and  virtuous  woman, 
and  that  the  whole  honor  of  women  consists  in  reputation  ;  and  since 
thy  wife's  is  of  that  high  excellence  that  thou  knowest,  where- 
fore shouldst  thou  seek  to  call  that  truth  in  question  ?  Remember, 
my  friend,  that  woman  is  an  imperfect  animal,  and  that  impedi- 
ments are  not  to  be  placed  in  her  way  to  make  her  trip  and  fall,  but 
that  they  should  be  removed,  and  her  path  left  clear  of  all  obstacles, 
so  that  without  hinderance  she  may  run  her  course  freely  to  attain 
the  desired  perfection,  which  consists  in  being  virtuous.  Naturalists 
tell  us  that  the  ermine  is  a  little  animal  which  has  a  fur  of  j^urest 
white,  and  that  when  the  hunters  wish  to  take  it,  they  make  use  of 
this  artifice.  Having  ascertained  the  places  which  it  frequents  and 
passes,  they  stop  the  way  to  them  with  mud,  and  then  rousing  it, 
drive  it  towards  the  spot,  and  as  soon  as  the  ermine  comes  to  the 
mud  it  halts,  and  allows  itself  to  be  taken  captive  rather  than  pass 
through  the  mire,  and  spoil  and  sully  its  whiteness,  which  it  values 
more  than  life  and  liberty.  The  virtuous  and  chaste  woman  is  an 
ei'mine,  and  whiter  and  purer  than  snow  is  the  virtue  of  modesty; 
and  he  who  wishes  her  not  to  lose  it,  but  to  keep  and  preserve  it, 
must  adopt  a  course  diff'erent  from  that  employed  with  the  ermine ; 
he  niust  not  put  before  her  the  mire  of  the  gifts  and  attentions  of 
persevering  lovers,  because  perhaps  —  and  even  without  a  perhaps 

Rinalilo's  liost,  who  tried  the  test  of  the  cup.  The  ruagic  cup,  of  which 
no  husliand  of  a  faithless  wife  could  drink  without  spilling,  figures  fre- 
(juently  in  old  romance.  It  appears  in  the  ballad  of  The  Boy  and  the 
Mantle,"  and  also  in  another  of  the  King  Arthur  ballads. 


280  DON   QUIXOTE. 

—  she  may  not  have  sufficient  virtue  and  natural  strength  in  herself 
to  pass  through  and  tread  under  foot  these  impediments;  they  must 
be  removed,  and  the  brightness  of  virtue  and  the  beauty  of  a  fair 
fame  must  be  put  before  her.  A  virtuous  woman,  too,  is  like  a 
mirror  of  clear  shining  crystal,  liable  to  be  tarnished  and  dimmed 
by  every  breath  that  touches  it.  8lie  must  be  treated  as  relics  are ; 
adored,  not  touched.  She  must  be  protected  and  prized  as  one  pro- 
tects and  prizes  a  fair  garden  full  of  roses  and  flowers,  the  owner  of 
Avhich  allows  no  one  to  trespass  or  pluck  a  blossom  ;  enough  for 
others  that  from  afar  and  through  the  iron  grating  they  may  enjoy 
its  fragrance  and  its  beauty.  Finally  let  me  repeat  to  thee  some 
verses  that  come  to  my  mind ;  I  heard  them  in  a  modern  comedy, 
and  it  seems  to  me  they  bear  upon  the  point  we  are  discussing.  A 
prudent  okl  man  was  giving  advice  to  another,  the  father  of  a  young 
girl,  to  lock  her  up,  watch'over  her  and  keep  her  in  seclusion,  and 
among  other  aro^uments  he  used  these : 

Woman  is  a  thing  of  glass  ; 

But  her  brittlene.s.s  't  is  best 

Not  too  curiously  to  test : 
Who  knows  what  may  come  to  pass? 

Breaking  is  an  easy  matter, 

And  it  's  folly  to  expose 

What  you  can  not  mend  to  blows ; 
What  you  can't  make  whole  to  shatter. 

This,  then,  all  may  hold  as  true. 

And  the  reason  's  plain  to  see ; 

For  if  Danaes  there  be, 
There  are  golden  showers  too. 

"All  that  I  have  said  to  thee  so  far,  Anselmo,  has  had  I'eference 
to  what  concerns  thee ;  now  it  is  right  that  I  should  say  something 
of  what  regards  myself;  and  if  I  be  prolix,  pardon  me,  for  the 
labyrinth  into  which  thou  hast  entered  and  from  which  thou  wouldst 
have  me  extricate  thee  makes  it  necessary. 

"  Thou  dost  reckon  me  thy  friend,  and  thou  wouldst  rob  me  of 
honor,  a  thing  wholly  inconsistent  with  friendship;  and  not  only 
dost  thou  aim  at  this,  but  thou  wouldst  have  me  rob  thee  of  it  also. 
That  thou  wouldst  rob  me  of  it  is  clear,  for  when  Camilla  sees  that 
T  pay  court  to  her  as  thou  requirest,  she  will  certainly  regard  me  as 
a  man  without  honor  or  right  feeling,  since  I  attempt  and  do  a  thing 
so  much  opjjosed  to  what  1  owe  to  my  own  jjosition  and  thy  friend- 
ship. That  thou  wouldst  have  me  rob  thee  of  it  is  beyond  a  doubt, 
for  Camilla,  seeing  that  I  press  my  suit  upon  her,  will  suppose  that 
I  have  perceived  in  her  something  light  that  has  encouraged  me  to 
make  known  to  her  my  base  desire;  and  if  she  holds  herself  dis- 
honored, her  dishonor  touches  thee  as  belonging  to  her;  and  hence 
arises  what  so  commonly  takes  place,  that  the  husband  of  the  adul- 
terous woman,  though  he  may  not  be  aware  of  or  have  given  any 


CHAPTER    XXXITI.  281 

cause  for  his  \vife"'s  failure  In  her  duty,  or  (being  careless  or  negli- 
gent) have  had  it  in  his  power  to  prevent  his  dishonor,  nevertheless 
is  stigmatized  by  a  vile  and  reproachful  name,  and  in  a  manner 
regarded  with  eyes  of  contempt  instead  of  pity  by  all  who  know  of 
his  wife's  guilt,  though  tiiey  see  tliat  he  is  unfortunate  not  by  his 
own  fault,  but  by  the  lust  of  a  vicious  consort.  But  I  will  tell  thee 
w^hy  with  good  reason  dishonor  attaches  to  the  husband  of  the 
unchaste  wife,  thouofh  he  know  not  that  she  is  so,  nor  be  to  blame, 
nor  have  done  anything,  or  given  any  provocation  to  make  her  so ; 
and  be  not  weary  with  listening  to  me,  for  it  will  be  all  for  thy 
good. 

"  When  God  created  our  first  parent  in  the  earthly  paradise,  the 
Holy  Scripture  says  that  he  infused  sleep  into  Adam  and  while  he 
slept  took  a  rib  from  his  left  side  of  which  he  formed  our  mother 
Eve,  and  when  Adam  awoke  and  beheld  her  he  said,  '  This  is  flesh  of 
my  flesh,  and  bone  of  my  bone.'  And  God  said, '  For  this  shall  a  man 
leave  his  father  and  his  mother,  and  they  shall  be  two  in  one  flesh ;  ' 
and  then  was  instituted  the  divine  sacrament  of  marriage,  with  such 
ties  that  death  alone  can  loose  them.  And  such  is  the  force  and  virtue 
of  this  miraculous  sacrament  that  it  makes  two  different  persons  one 
and  the  same  flesh  ;  and  even  moi'e  than  this  when  the  virtuous  arc  mar- 
ried ;  for  though  they  have  two  souls  they  have  but  one  will.  And 
hence  it  follows  that  as  the  flesh  of  the  wife  is  one  and  the  same  with 
that  of  her  husband,  the  stains  that  may  come  upon  it,  or  the  injuries 
it  incurs  fall  upon  the  husband's  flesh,  though  he,  as  has  been  said, 
may  have  given  no  cause  f(jr  them  ;  for  as  the  pain  of  the  foot  or  any 
member  of  the  body  is  felt  by  the  whole  body,  because  all  is  one 
flesh,  as  the  head  feels  the  hurt  to  the  ankle  without  having  caused 
it,  so  the  husband,  being  one  with  her,  shares  the  dishonor  of  the 
wife ;  and  as  all  woi'ldly  honor  or  dishonor  comes  of  flesh  and  blood, 
and  the  erring  wife's  is  of  that  kind,  the  husband  must  needs  bear  his 
part  of  it  and  be  held  dishonored  without  knowing  it.  See,  then, 
Anselmo,  the  peril  thou  art  encountering  in  geoking  to  disturb  the 
peace  of  thy  virtuous  consort;  see  for  what  an  empty  and  ill-advised 
curiosity  thou  wouldst  rouse  up  passions  that  now  repose  in  qniet  in 
the  breast  of  thy  chaste  wife  ;  reflect  that  what  thou  art  staking  all  to 
win  is  little,  and  what  thou  wilt  lose  so  much  that  I  leave  it  unde- 
scribed,  not  having  the  words  to  express  it.  But  if  all  I  have  said  be 
not  enough  to  turn  thee  from  tliy  vile  purpose,  thou  must  seek  some 
other  instrument  for  thy  dishonor  and  misfortune  ;  for  such  I  will  not 
consent  to  be,  though  by  this  I  lose  thy  friendship,  the  greatest  loss 
that  I  can  conceive." 

Having  said  this,  the  wise  and  virtuous  Lothario  was  silent,  and 
Anselmo,  troubled  in  mind  and  deep  in  thought,  was  unable  for  a 
while  to  utter  a  word  in  i"eply;  but  at  length  he  said,  "I  have 
listened,  Lothario  my  friend,  attentively,  as  thou  hast  seen,  to  what 
thou  hast  chosen  to  say  to  me,  and  in  thy  arguments,  examples,  and 
comparisons  I  have  seen  that  high  intelligence  thou  dost  possess,  and 
the  perfection  of  true  friendship  thou  hast  reached;  and  likewise  I 
see  and  confess  that  if  I  am  not  guided  by  thy  opinion,  but  follow 


282  I>ON    QUIXOTE. 

my  own,  I  am  flying  from  the  good  and  pursuing  the  evil.  This  lieing 
so,  thou  must  remember  that  I  am  now  hiboring  under  that  infirmity 
which  women  sometime  suifer  from,  wlien  the  craving  seizes  them  to 
eat  chiy,  plaster,  chai'coal,  and  things  even  worse,  disgusting  to  look 
at,  much  more  to  eat ;  so  that  it  will  be  necessary  to  have  recourse  to 
some  artifice  to  cure  me  ;  and  this  can  be  easily  eftected  if  only  thou 
wilt  make  a  beginning,  even  though  it  be  in  a  lukewarm  and  make- 
believe  fashion^  to  pay  court  to  Camilla,  who  will  not  be  so  yielding 
that  her  virtue  will  give  way  at  the  first  attack:  with  this  mere  at- 
terai)t  I  shall  rest  satisfied,  and  thou  wilt  have  done  what  our  friend- 
shi])  binds  thee  to  do,  not  only  in  giving  me  life,  but  in  persuading 
me  not  to  discard  my  honor.  And  tliis  thou  art  bound  to  do  for  one 
reason  alone,  that,  being,  as  I  am,  resolved  to  apply  this  test,  it  is 
not  for  thee  to  permit  me  to  reveal  my  weakness  to  another,  and  so 
imperil  that  honor  thou  art  striving  to  keep  me  from  losing;  and  if 
thine  may  not  stand  as  high  as  it  ought  in  the  estimation  of  Camilla 
while  thou  art  paying  court  to  her,  that  is  of  little  or  no  importance, 
because  ere  long,  on  finding  in  her  that  constancy  which  we  expect, 
thou  canst  tell  her  the  plain  truth  as  regards  our  stratagem,  and  so 
regain  thy  place  in  her  esteem ;  and  as  thou  art  ventui'ing  so  little, 
and  bj'  the  venture  canst  afford  me  so  much  satisfaction,  refuse  not 
to  undertake  it,  even  if  further  difliculties  present  themselves  to 
thee;  for,  as  I  have  said,  if  thou  wilt  only  make  a  beginning  I  Avill 
acknowledge  the  issue  decided." 

Lothario  seeing  the  fixed  determination  of  Anselmo,  and  not  know- 
ing what  further  examples  to  ofter  or  arguments  to  urge  in  order  to 
dissuade  him  from  it,  and  perceiving  that  he  threatened  to  confide 
his  pernicious  scheme  to  some  one  else,  to  avoid  a  gi-eater  evil  re- 
solved to  gratify  him  and  do  what  he  asked,  intending  to  manage  the 
business  so  as  to  satisfy  Anselmo  without  corrupting  the  mind  of 
Camilla;  so  in  reply  lie  told  him  not  to  communicate  his  purpose  to 
any  other,  for  he  would  undertake  the  task  himself,  and  would  begin 
it  as  soon  as  he  pleased.  Anselmo  embraced  him  warmly  and  affec- 
tionately, and  thanked  him  for  his  offer  as  if  he  had  bestowed  some 
great  favor  upon  him  ;  and  it  was  agreed  between  them  to  set  about 
it  the  next  day,  Anselmo  aftV)rding  opportunity  and  time  to  Lothario 
to  converse  alone  witli  Camilla,  and  furnishing  him  with  money  and 
jewels  to  offer  and  present  to  her.  He  suggested,  too,  that  lie  should 
treat  her  to  music,  and  write  verses  in  her  praise,  and  if  he  was  un- 
willino;  to  take  the  ti'ouble  of  composing  them,  he  offered  to  do  it 
himself.  Lothario  agreed  to  all  with  an  intention  very  diftei-ent  from 
what  Anselmo  supposed,  and  with  this  understanding  they  returned 
to  Anselmo's  house,  where  they  found  Camilla  awaiting  her  husband 
anxiously  and  uneasily,  for  he  was  later  tlian  usual  in  returning  that 
day.  Lothario  repaired  to  his  own  house,  and  Anselmo  remained  in 
his,  as  well  satisfied  as  Lothario  was  troubled  in  mind  ;  for  he  could 
see  no  satisfactory  way  out  of  this  ill-advised  business.  That  night, 
however,  he  thought  of  a  plan  by  which  he  might  deceive  Anselmo 
without  any  injury  to  Camilla.  The  next  day  he  went  to  dine  with 
his  friend,  and  was  welcomed  by  Camilla,  who  received  and  treated 


CHAPTER    XXXIII.  283 

him  with  great  cordiality,  linowing  the  aft'ection  her  husband  felt  for 
him.  When  dinner  was  over  and  the  cloth  removed,  Anselmo  told 
Lothario  to  stay  there  with  Camilla  while  he  attended  to  some  press- 
ing business,  as  he  would  return  in  an  hour  and  a  half.  Camilla 
beo-o"ed  him  not  to  go,  and  Lothario  otiered  to  accompany  him.  but 
nothing  could  persuade  Anselmo,  who  on  the  contrary  pressed 
Lothario  to  remain  waiting  for  him  as  he  had  a  matter  of  great  im- 
portance to  discuss  with  him.  At  the  same  time  he  i)ade  Camilla  not 
to  leave  Lotliario  alone  until  he  came  back.  In  short  he  contrived 
to  put  so  good  a  face  on  the  reason,  or  the  folly,  of  his  absence  that 
no  one  could  have  suspected  it  was  a  pretence. 

Anselmo  took  his  dei)arture,  and  Camilla  and  Lothario  were  left 
alone  at  the  table,  for  the  rest  of  the  Jiousehold  had  gone  to  dinner. 
Lothario  saw  himself  in  the  lists  according  to  his  friend's  wish,  and 
facing  an  enemy  that  could  by  hei-  beauty  alone  vanquish  a  squadron 
of  armed  knights;  judge  Avhether  he  had  good  reason  to  fear;  but 
what  he  did  \\"as  to  lean  his  elljow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  and  his 
cheek  upon  his  hand,  and,  asking  Camilla's  pardon  for  his  ill  man- 
ners, he  said  he  wished  to  take  a  little  sleep  until  Anselmo  returned. 
Camilla  in  reply  said  he  could  repose  more  at  his  ease  in  the  recep- 
tion-room than"  in  his  chair,  and  begged  of  him  to  go  in  and  sleep 
there;  but  Lolhario  declined,  and  there  he  remained  asleep  until  the 
return  of  Anselmo,  who  finding  Camilla  in  her  own  room,  and  Lo- 
thario asleep,  imagined  that  he  had  stayed  away  so  long  as  to  have 
afforded  them  time  enough  for  conversation  and  even  for  sleep,  and 
was  all  impatience  until  Lothario  should  wake  up,  that  he  might  go 
out  with  him  and  question  him  as  to  his  success.  Everything  fell  out 
as  he  wished  ;  Lothario  awoke,  and  the  two  at  once  left  the  house, 
and  Anselmo  asked  what  he  was  anxious  to  know,  and  Lothario  in 
answer  told  him  that  he  had  not  thought  it  advisable  to  declare  him- 
self entirely  the  first  time,  and  therefore  had  only  extolled  the  charms 
of  Camilla,  telling  her  that  all  the  city  spoke  of  nothing  else  but  her 
beauty  and  wit,  for  this  seemed  to  him  an  excellent  wa}^  of  beginning 
to  gain  her  good-will,  and  render  her  disposed  to  listen  to  him  with 
pleasure  the  next  time,  thus  availing  himself  of  the  device  the  devil 
has  recourse  to  when  he  would  deceive  one  who  is  on  the  watch ;  for 
he  being  the  angel  of  darkness  transforms  himself  into  an  angel  of 
light,  and,  under  cover  of  a  fair  seeming,  discloses  himself  at  length, 
and  effects  his  purpose  if  at  the  beginning  his  wiles  are  not  discov- 
ei"ed.  All  this  gave  great  satisfaction  to  Anselmo,  and  he  said  he 
would  aiford  the  same  opportunity  evei'y  day,  but  without  leaving  the 
house,  for  he  would  find  things  to  do  at  home  so  that  Camilla  should 
not  detect  the  plot. 

Thus,  then,  several  days  went  by,  and  Lothario,  without  uttering  a 
word  to  Camilla,  reported  to  Anselmo  that  he  had  talked  with  her 
and  that  he  had  never  been  able  to  draw  from  her  tlie  slightest  indi- 
cation of  consent  to  anything  dishonorable,  nor  even  a  sign  or  shadow 
of  hope ;  on  the  contrary,  he  said  she  threatened  that  if  he  did  not 
abandon  such  a  wicked  idea  she  would  inform  her  husband  of  it. 
"So  far  well,"   said  Anselmo;    "Camilla  has  thus  far  resisted 


284  DON    QUIXOTE. 

words  ;  we  must  now  see  how  she  will  resist  deeds.  I  will  give  you 
to-morrow  two  thousand  crowns  in  gold  for  you  to  offer  or  even  pre- 
sent, and  as  many  more  to  buy  jewels  to  lure  her,  for  women  are 
fond  of  being  bec-omingly  attired  and  going  gayly  dressed,  and  all  the 
moye  so  if  they  are  beautiful,  however  chaste  they  may  be  ;  and  if  she 
resists  tliis  temptation,  I  will  rest  satisfied  and  will  give  you  no  more 
trouble." 

Lothario  replied  that  now  he  had  begun  he  would  cany  on  the 
undertaking  to  the  end,  though  he  perceived  he  was  to  come  out  of 
it  wearied  and  vanquished.  '  The  next  day  he  received  the  four 
tliousand  crowns,  and  with  them  four  thousand  perplexities,  for  he 
knew  not  what  to  say  by  way  of  a  new  f:ilseho(xl ;  but  in  tlie  end  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  tell  him  that  Camilla  stood  as  firm  against  gifts 
and  promises  as  against  words,  and  that  there  was  no  us°  in  takino- 
any  further  trouble,  for  the  time  was  all  spent  to  no  purpose.  ° 

But  chance,  directing  things  in  a  different  manner,  so  ordered  it 
that  Anselmo,  having  left  Lothario  and  Camilla  alone  as  on  other 
occasions,  shut  himself  into  a  chamber  and  posted  himself  to  watch 
and  listen  through  the  keyhole  to  what  passed  between  them,  and  per- 
ceived that  for  more  than  half  an  hour  Lothario  did  not  utter  a  word 
to  Camilla,  nor  would  utter  a  word  though  he  were  to  be  there  for 
an  age ;  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  what  liis  friend  had  told 
him  about  the  replies  of  Camilla  was  all  invention  and  falsehood,  and 
to  ascertain  if  it  were  so,  he  came  out,  and  calling  Lothario  aside 
asked  him  what  news  he  had  and  in  what  humor  Camilla  was.  Lotha- 
rio replied  tliat  he  was  not  disposed  to  go  on  with  the  business,  for 
she  had  answered  him  so  angrily  and  harshly  that  he  had  no  heart  to 
say  anything  more  to  her. 

"  Ah,  Lothario,  Lothario,"  said  Anselmo,  '-how  ill  dost  thou  meet 
thy  obligations  to  me,  and  the  great  confidence  I  repose  in  thee !  I 
have  been  just  now  watching  through  this  keyhole,  and  I  have  seen 
that  thou  hast  not  said  a  word  to  Camilla,  whence  I  conclude  that  on 
the  former  occasions  thou  hast  not  spoken  ro  her  either,  and  if  this 
be  so,  as  no  doubt  it  is,  why  dost  thou  deceive  me.  or  wherefore 
seekest  thou  by  craft  to  depriVe  me  of  the  means  I  might  find  of  at- 
taining my  desire  ?" 

Anselmo  said  no  more,  but  he  had  said  enough  to  cover  Lothario 
with  shame  and  confusion,  and  he,  feeling  as  it  were  iiis  honor 
touched  by  having  been  detected  in  a  lie,  swore  to  Anselmo  that  he 
would  from  that  moment  devote  himself  to  satisfying  him  without 
any  deception,  as  he  would  see  if  he  had  the  curiosity  to  watch  ; 
though  ho  need  not  take  the  trouble,  for  the  pains  he  would  take  to 
satisfy  him  would  remove  all  suspicions  from  his  mind.  Anselmo 
believed  him,  and  to  aiibrd  him  an  opportunitv  more  free  and  less 
liable  to  surprise,  he  resolved  to  absent  himself  from  his  house  for 
eight  days,  betaking  himself  to  that  of  a  friend  of  his  who  lived  in  a 
village  not  far  from  the  city ;  and,  the  better  to  account  for  his  de- 
l^arture  to  Camilla,  he  so  arranged  it  that  the  friend  should  send  him 
a  very  pressing  invitation. 
Unhappy,  short-sighted  Anselmo,  what  art  thou  doing,  what  art 


CHAPTER    XXXI IL  285 

thou  plotting,  what  art  tliou  devisino;?  Bethink  thee  thou  art  work- 
ing against  thyself,  plotting  thine  own  dishonor,  devising  thine  own 
ruin.  Thy  wife  Camilla  is  virtuous,  thou  dost  possess  her  in  peace 
and  quietness,  no  one  assails  thy  happiness,  her  thoughts  wander  not 
beyond  the  walls  of  thy  house,  thou  art  her  heaven  on  earth,  the  ob- 
ject of  her  wishes,  the  fuKilment  of  her  desires,  tlie  measure  where- 
with she  measures  her  will,  making  it  conform  in  all  things  to  thine 
and  Heaven's.  If,  then,  the  mine  of  her  honor,  beauty,  virtue,  and 
modest}'  yields  thee  without  labor  all  the  wealth  it  contains  and  thou 
canst  wish  for,  why  wilt  thou  dig  the  earth  in  search  of  fresh  veins, 
of  new  unknown  treasure,  risking  the  collapse  of  all,  since  it  i)ut 
rests  on  the  feeble  props  of  her  weak  natui'e?  Bethink  thee  that 
from  him  who  seeks  impossibilities  that  which  is  possible  may  with 
justice  be  withheld,  as  was  better  expressed  by  a  poet  who  said  : 

'  T  is  mine  to  seek  for  life  in  death, 

Health  in  disease  seek  I, 
I  seek  in  prison  freedom's  breath, 

In  traitors  loyalty. 

So  Fate  that  ever  scorns  to  grant 

Or  grace  or  boon  to  me. 
Since  what  can  never  be  I  want, 

Denies  me  what  miglit  be. 

The  next  day  Anselmo  took  his  departure  for  the  village,  leaving 
instructions  with  Camilla  that  during  his  absence  Lothario  would 
come  to  look  after  his  house  and  to  dine  with  her,  and  that  she  was 
to  treat  him  as  she  would  himself.  Camilla  was  distressed,  as  a 
discreet  and  right-minded  woman  would  be,  at  the  orders  her  hus- 
band left  her,  and  bade  him  remember  that  it  was  not  becoming  that 
any  one  should  occupy  his  seat  at  the  table  dui'ing  his  absence,  and 
if  he  acted  thus  from  not  feeling  confidence  that  she  would  be  able 
to  manage  his  house,  let  him  try  her  this  time,  and  he  would  find  by 
experience  that  she  was  equal  to  greater  responsibilities.  Anselmo 
replied  that  it  was  his  pleasure  to  have  it  so.  and  that  she  had  only 
to  submit  and  obey.  Camilla  said  she  would  do  so,  though  against 
her  will. 

Anselmo  went,  and  the  next  day  Lothario  came  to  his  house, 
where  he  was  received  by  Camilla  with  a  friendly  and  modest  wel- 
come ;  but  she  never  suffered  Lothario  to  see  her  alone,  for  she  was 
always  attended  by  her  men  and  women  servants,  especially  by  a 
handmaid  of  hers,  Leonela  by  name,  to  whom  she  was  much  attached 
(for  they  had  been  brought  up  together  from  childhood  in  her  father's 
house),  and  whom  she  had  kept  with  her  after  her  marriage  with 
Anselmo.  The  first  three  days  Lothario  did  not  speak  to  her,  though 
he  might  have  done  so  when  they  removed  the  cloth  and  the  servants 
retii'ed  to  dine  hastily;  for  such  were  Camilla's  orders;  nay  more, 
Leonela  had  directions  to  dine  earlier  than  Camilla  and  never  to 
leave  her  side.     She,  however,  having  her  thoughts  fixed  upon  other 


286  DON    QUIXOTE. 

things  more  to  her  taste,  and  wanting  that  time  and  opportunity  for 
her  own  pleasures,  did  not  always  obey  her  mistress's  commands, 
but  on  the  contrary  left  them  alone,  as  if  they  had  oi'dered  her  to 
do  so ;  but  the  modest  bearing  of  Camilla,  the  calmness  of  her 
covmtenance,  the  composure  of  her  aspect,  were  enough  to  bridle  the 
tongue  of  Lothario.  But  the  influence  which  the  many  virtues  of 
Camilla  exerted  in  imposing  silence  on  Lothario's  tongue  proved 
mischievous  for  l)oth  of  them,  for  if  his  tongue  was  silent  his 
thoughts  were  busy,  and  could  dwell  at  leisure  upon  the  perfections 
of  Camilla's  goodness  and  beauty  one  by  one,  charms  enougli  to 
warm  with  love  a  marble  statue,  not  to  say  a  heart  of  flesh.  Lothario 
ga7;ed  ui^on  her  when  he  might  have  been  speaking  to  her,  and 
thought  how  worthy  of  being  loved  she  was;  and  thus  reflection 
l)egan  little  by  little  to  assail  his  allegiance  to  Anselmo.  and  a  thou- 
sand times  he  thought  of  withdrawing  from  the  city  and  going  where 
Anselmo  should  never  see  him  nor  he  see  Carailhx.  But  already  the 
delight  he  found  in  gazing  on  her  interposed  and  held  him  fast.  He 
2>iit  a  constraint  upon  himself,  and  struggled  to  repel  and  repress  the 
pleasure  he  found  in  contemplating  Camilla;  when  alone  he  blamed 
himself  for  his  weakness,  called  himself  a  bad  friend,  nay  a  bad 
Christian ;  then  he  argued  the  matter  and  compared  himself  with 
Anselmo ;  always  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  the  folly  and  rash- 
ness of  Anselmo  had  been  worse  than  his  faithlessness,  and  that  if 
he  could  excuse  his  intentions  as  easily  before  God  as  with  man, 
he  need  fear  no  punishment  for  his  ottence. 

In  siiort  the  beauty  and  goodness  of  Camilla,  joined  with  the  oppor- 
tunity which  the  blind  husband  had  placed  in  his  hands,  overthrew 
tlie  loyalty  of  Lothario ;  and  giving  heed  to  nothing  save  the  object 
towards  which  his  inclinations  led  him,  after  Anselmo  had  been  three 
days  absent,  during  which  he  had  been  carrying  on  a  continual  strug- 
gle with  his  ])assii)n,  he  began  to  make  love  to  Camilla  with  so  much 
vehemence  and  warmth  of  language  that  she  was  overwhelmed  with 
amazement,  and  could  only  rise  from  her  place  and  retire  to  her  room 
without  answering  him  a  word.  But  the  hope  which  always  springs 
up  with  love  was  not  weakened  in  Lothario  by  this  repelling  de- 
meanor; on  the  contrary  his  passion  for  Camilla  increased,  and  she 
discovering  in  him  what  sJie  liad  never  expected,  knew  not  what  to 
do ;  and  considering  it  neither  safe  nor  right  to  give  him  the  chance 
or  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  again,  she  resolved  to  send,  as  she 
did  tliat  very  night,  one  of  her  servants  with  a  letter  to  Anselmo,  in 
wliich  she  addressed  the  following  words  to  him. 


ANSELMO   AND   CAMILLA.      Vol.1.      Page  286. 


CHAPTER    XXX IV.  287 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

IN    WHICH    IS    CONTINUED     THE     NOVEIj    OF     "THE     ILL-ADVISED 

CURIOSITY." 

"  It  is  commonly  said  that  an  army  looks  ill  without  its  general  and 
a  castle  without  its  castellan,  and  I  say  that  a  young  married  woman 
looks  still  worse  without  her  husband  unless  there  are  very  good 
reasons  for  it.  I  find  myself  so  ill  at  ease  without  you,  and  so  inca- 
pable of  enduring  this  separation,  that  unless  you  return  quickly  I 
shall  have  to  go  for  relief  to  my  parents'  house,  even  if  I  leave  yours 
without  a  protector;  for  the  one  you  left  me,  if  indeed  he  deserved 
that  title,  has,  I  think,  more  regard  to  his  own  pleasure  than  to  what 
concerns  you  ;  as  you  are  possessed  of  discernment  I  need  say  no  more 
to  you,  nor  is  it  fitting  I  should  say  more." 

Ansel  mo  received  this  letter,  and  from  it  he  gathered  that  Lothario 
had  already  begun  his  task  and  that  Camilla  must  have  replied  to  him 
as  he  would  have  wished  ;  and  delighted  beyond  measure  at  snch  in- 
telligence he  sent  word  to  her  not  to  leave  his  house  on  any  account, 
as  he  would  very  shoi'tly  return.  Camilla  was  astonished  at  Ansel- 
mo's  reply,  which  placed  her  in  greater  perplexity  than  before,  for 
she  neither  dared  to  remain  in  her  own  house,  nor  yet  to  go  to  her 
I^arents' ;  for  in  remaining  her  virtue  was  imperilled,  and  ingoing 
she  was  opposing  her  husband's  commands.  Finally  she  decided 
upon  what  Avas  the  worse  course  for  her,  to  remain,  resolving  not  to 
fly  from  the  presence  of  Lothario,  that  sh(!  might  not  give  food  for 
gossip  to  her  servants ;  and  she  now  began  to  regret  having  written 
as  she  had  to  her  husband,  fearing  he  might  imagine  that  Lothario 
had  perceived  in  her  some  .lightness  which  had  impelled  him  to  lay 
aside  the  respect  he  owed  her;  but  confident  of  her  rectitude  she  put 
her  trust  in  (iod  and  in  her  own  virtuous  intentions,  with  which  she 
hoped  to  resist  in  silence  all  the  solicitations  of  Lothario,  without  say- 
ing anything  to  her  husband  so  as  not  to  involve  him  in  any  quarrel 
or  trouble  ;  and  she  even  began  to  consider  how  to  excuse  Lothario  to 
Anselmo  when  he  should  ask  her  what  it  was  that  induced  lier  to  write 
that  letter.  With  these  resolutions,  more  honorable  than  judicious 
or  effectual,  she  remained  the  next  day  listening  to  Lothario,  who 
pressed  his  suit  so  strenuously  that  Camilla's  firmness  began  to  Avaver, 
and  her  virtue  had  enough  to  do  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  her  eyes  and 
keep  them  from  showing  signs  of  a  certain  tender  compassion  which 
the  tears  and  appeals  of  Lothario  had  awakened  in  her  Ijosom.  Lo- 
thario observed  all  this,  and  it  inflamed  him  all  the  more.  In  short 
he  felt  that  while  Anselmo's  absence  aftbrded  time  and  opportunity 
he  must  press  the  siege  of  the  fortress,  and  so  he  assaiU^d  her  self- 
esteem  with  praises  of  her  beauty,  for  there  is  nothing  that  more 
quickly  reduces  and  levels  the  castle  towers  of  fair  women's  vanity 
than  vanity  itself  upon  the  tongue  of  flattery.  In  fact  witii  the  utmost 
assiduity  he  undermined  the  rock  of  her  purity  with  such  engines  that 


288  DON    QUIXOTE. 

had  Camilla  been  of  brass  she  must  have  fallen.  He  wept,  he  en- 
treated, he  ]jromised,  he  flattered,  he  importuned,  he  pretended  with 
so  much  feeling  and  apparent  sincerity,  that  he  overthrew  the  virtu- 
ous resolves  of  Camilla  and  won  the  triumph  he  least  expected  and 
most  longed  for.  Camilla  yielded,  Camilla  fell ;  but  what  wonder  if 
the  friendship  of  Lothario  could  not  stand  firm?  A  clear  proof  to  us 
that  the  passion  of  love  is  to  be  conquei'ed  only  by  flying  from  it,  and 
that  no  one  should  engage  in  a  struggle  with  an  enemy  so  mighty; 
for  divine  strength  is  needed  to  overcome  his  human  power.  Leonela 
alone  knew  of  her  mistress's  weakness,  for  the  two  false  friends  and 
new  lovers  were  unable  to  conceal  it.  Lothario  did  not  care  to  tell 
Camilla  the  object  Anselmo  had  in  view,  nor  that  he  had  afforded  him 
the  opportunity  of  attaining  such  a  result,  lest  she  should  undervalue 
his  love  and  think  that  it  Avas  by  chance  and  without  intending  it  and 
not  of  his  own  accord  that  he  had  made  love  to  her. 

A  few  days  later  Anselmo  retui'ned  to  his  house  and  did  not  per- 
ceive what  it  had  lost,  that  which  he  so  lightly  treated  anil  so  highly 
prized.  lie  went  at  once  to  see  Lothario,  and  found  him  at  liome ; 
they  embraced  each  other,  and  Anselmo  asked  for  the  tidings  of  his 
life  or  his  death. 

"  The  tidings  I  have  to  give  thee,  Anselmo  my  friend,"  said 
Lothario,  "are  that  thou  dost  possess  a  wife  that  is  worthy  to  be 
the  pattern  and  crown  of  all  good  wives.  The  words  tliat  I  have 
addressed  to  her  were  borne  away  on  the  wind,  my  promises  have 
been  despised,  my  presents  have  been  refused,  such  feigned  tears  as 
I  shed  have  been  turned  into  open  ridicule.  In  short,  as  Camilla  is 
the  essence  of  all  beauty,  so  is  she  the  treasure-house  where  purity 
dwells,  and  gentleness  and  modestj'  abide  with  all  the  virtues  that 
can  confer  praise,  honor,  and  happiness  upon  a  woman.  Take  back 
thy  money,  my  friend ;  here  it  is,  and  I  have  had  no  need  to  touch 
it,  for  the  chastity  of  Camilla  yields  not  to  things  so  base  as  gifts  or 
promises.  Be  content,  Anselmo,  and  refrain  from  making  further 
proof ;  and  as  thou  hast  passed  drysiiod  through  the  sea  of  those 
doubts  and  suspicions  that  are  and  may  be  entertained  of  women, 
seek  not  to  plunge  again  into  the  deep  ocean  of  new  embarrassments, 
or  with  another  pilot  make  trial  of  the  goodness  and  strengtli  of  the 
bark  that  Heaven  has  granted  thee  for  thy  passage  across  the  sea 
of  this  world  ;  but  reckon  thyself  now  safe  in  port,  moor  thyself 
with  the  anchor  of  sound  reflection,  and  rest  in  peace  until  thou  art 
called  upon  to  pay  that  debt  which  no  nobility  on  earth  can  escape 
paying." 

Anselmo  was  completely  satisfied  by  the  words  of  Lothario,  and 
believed  them  as  fully  as  if  they  had  been  spoken  by  an  oracle ; 
nevertheless  he  begged  of  him  not  to  relinquish  the  undertaking, 
were  it  but  for  the  sake  of  curiosity  and  amusement;  though  thence- 
forward he  need  not  make  use  of  the  same  (>arnest  endeavors  as 
before :  all  he  wished  him  to  do  was  to  write  some  vei'ses  to  her, 
praising  her  under  the  name  of  Chloris,  for  he  himself  would  give 
her  to  "understand  that  he  was  in  love  with  a  lady  to  whom  he  had 
given  that  name  to  ena,ble  him  to  sing  her  praises  with  the  decoruoi 


CHAPTER    XXXIV.  289 

due  to  her  modesty;  and  if  Lothario  were  unwilling  to  take  the 
trouble  of  writing  the  verses  he  would  compose  them  himself. 

"  That  will  not  be  necessary,"  said  Lothario,  "  for  the  muses  are 
not  such  enemies  of  mine  but  that  they  visit  me  now  and  then  in  the 
course  of  the  year.  Do  thou  tell  Camilla  what  thou  hast  proposed 
about  a  pretendetl  amour  of  mine;  as  for  the  verses  I  will  make 
them,  and  if  not  as  good  as  the  subject  deserves,  they  shall  be  at 
least  the  l)est  T  can  produce."  An  agreement  to  this  effect  was  made 
between  the  friends,  the  ill-advised  one  and  the  treaciierous,  and  An- 
selmo  returning  to  his  house  asked  Camilla  the  question  she  already 
wondered  he  had  not  asked  before  —  what  it  was  that  had  caused 
her  to  write  the  letter  she  had  sent  him.  Camilla  replied  that  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  Lothario  looked  at  lier  somewhat  more  freely  than 
when  he  had  been  at  liome ;  but  that  now  she  was  undeceived  and 
believed  it  to  have  been  only  her  own  imagination,  for  Lothario  now 
avoided  seeing  her,  or  being  alone  with  her.  Anselmo  told  her  slie 
might  be  quite  easy  on  the  score  of  that  suspicion,  for  he  knew  that 
J.,othario  was  in  love  with  a  damsel  of  rank  in  the  city  whom  he 
celebrated  under  the  name  of  Chloris,  and  that  even  if  he  were  not, 
his  tldelity  and  their  great  friendship  left  no  room  for  fear.  Had 
not  Camilla,  however,  been  informed  beforehand  by  Lothario  that 
this  love  for  Chloris  was  a  pretence,  and  that  he  himself  had  told 
Anselm  i  of  it  in  order  to  be  able  sometimes  to  give  utterance  to  the 
praises  of  Camilla  herself,  no  doubt  she  would  have  fallen  into  the 
despairing  toils  of  jealousy  ;  but  being  forewarned  she  received 
the  startling  news  without  uneasiness. 

The  next  day  as  the  three  were  at  table  Anselmo  asked  Lothario 
to  recite  something  of  wliat  he  had  composed  for  his  mistress  Chloris  ; 
for,  as  Camilla  did  not  know  her,  he  might  safely  say  what  he 
liked. 

"Even  did  she  know  her,"  returned  JjOthario,  "I  would  hide 
nothing,  for  when  a  lover  praises  his  lady's  beauty,  and  charges  her 
with  cruelty,  he  casts  no  imputation  upon  iierfair  name  ;  at  any  rate, 
all  I  can  say  is  that  yesterday  I  made  a  sonnet  on  the  ingratitude  of 
this  Cliloris,  which  goes  thus  : 

SONNET.' 

At  midnight,  in  the  silence,  when  the  eyes 
Of  happier  mortals  Ijalmy  slumbers  close, 
The  weary  tale  of  my  unnumbered  woes 

To  Chloris  and  to  Heaven  is  wont  to  rise. 

And  when  the  light  of  day  returning  dyes 
The  portals  of  the  east  with  tints  of  rose. 
With  undiminished  force  my  sorrow  flows 

In  broken  accents  and  in  burning  sighs. 

And  when  the  sun  ascends  his  star-girt  throne, 
And  on  the  earth  pours  down  his  midday  beams, 

'This  sonnet,  like  that  in  chapter  xxiii.,  was  repeated  by  Cervantes  in 
the  play  of  tlu'  Casa  de  los  Zelos  —  Jornada  2. 
Vol.  I,  — 19 


290  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Noon  but  renews  my  wailing  and  my  tears; 
And  with  the  night  again  goes  up  my  moan. 
Yet  ever  in  my  agony  it  seems 
To  me  that  neitlier  Heaven  nor  Chloris  hears." 

The  sonnet  pleased  Camilla,  and  still  more  Anselmo,  for  he 
praised  it  and  said  the  lady  was  excessively  cruel  who  made  no  re- 
turn for  sincerity  so  manifest.  On  which  Camilla  said,  "  Then  all 
that  love-smitten  poets  say  is  true  ?  " 

"As  poets  they  do  not  tell  the  truth,"  replied  Lothario;  "but 
as  lovers  they  are  not  more  defective  in  expression  than  they  aiu 
truthful." 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  observed  Anselmo,  anxious  to  sup- 
port and  uphold  Lothario's  ideas  with  Camilla,  who  was  as  regardless 
of  his  design  as  she  was  deep  in  love  with  Lothario ;  and  so  taking 
delight  in  anything  that  was  his,  and  knowing  that  his  thoughts  and 
writings  had  her  for  their  object,  and  that  she  herself  was  the  real 
Chloris,  she  asked  him  to  repeat  some  other  sonnet  or  verses  if  he 
recollected  any. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Lothario,  "but  I  do  not  think  it  as  good  as  the 
first  one,  or,  more  correctly  speaking,  less  bad ;  but  you  can  easily 
judge,  for  it  is  this. 

SONNET. 

I  know  that  I  am  doomed  ;  death  is  to  me 

As  certain  as  that  thou,  ungrateful  fair, 

Dead  at  thy  feet  shouldst  see  me  lying,  ere 
My  heart  repented  of  its  love  for  thee. 
If  buried  in  oblivion  I  should  be, 

Bereft  of  life,  fame,  favor,  even  there 

It  would  be  found  that  I  thy  image  bear 
Deep  graven  in  ni}-  breast  for  all  to  see. 
This  like  some  holy  relic  do  I  prize 

To  save  me  from  the  fate  my  truth  entails, 
Truth  that  to  thy  hard  lieart  its  vigor  owes. 
Alas  for  him  that  under  lowering  skies. 

In  peril  o'er  a  trackless  ocean  sails, 

Where  neither  friendly  jjort  nor  pole-star  shows." 

Anselmo  praised  this  second  sonnet  too,  as  he  had  j^raised  the  firs! ; 
and  so  he  went  on  adding  link  after  link  to  the  chain  with  which  he 
was  binding  himself  and  making  his  dishonor  secure ;  for  when 
]>othario  was  doing  most  to  dishonor  him  he  told  him  he  was  most 
iionored ;  and  thus  each  step  that  Camilla  descended  towards  the 
depths  of  her  abasement,  she  mounted,  in  the  opinion  of  her  husband, 
towards  the  summit  of  virtue  and  fair  fame. 

It  so  happened  that  finding  herself  on  one  occasion  alone  with  her 
maid,  Camilla  said  to  her,  "  I  am  ashamed  to  think,  my  dear  Leonela, 
how  lightly  I  have  valued  myself  that  I  did  not  compel  Lothario  to 
purchase  by  at  least  some  expenditure  of  time  that  full  possession  of 


CHAPTER    XXX TV.  291 

me  that  I  so  quickly  yielded  him  of  my  own  fi'ee  will.  I  fciir  that 
he  will  tliink  ill  of  my  pliancy  or  lightness,  not  considerino;  tlie  irre- 
sistible inHuence  he  brought  to  bear  upon  me." 

"Let  not  that  trouble  you,  my  lady,'"  said  Leonela,  "  for  it  does 
not  take  away  the  value  of  the  thing  given  or  make  it  the  less  pre- 
cious to  give  it  quicldy  if  it  be  really  valuable  and  worthy  of  being 
prized ;  nay,  they  are  wont  to  say  that  he  who  gives  quickly  gives 
twice." ' 

"  They  say  also,"  said  Camilla,  "  that  what  costs  little  is  valued 

less." 2 

"  That  saying  does  not  hold  good  in  your  case,"  replied  Leonela, 
"  for  love,  as  1  have  heard  say,  sometimes  flies  and  sometimes  walks  ; 
with  this  one  it  runs,  with  that  it  moves  slowly  ;  some  it  cools,  others 
it  burns;  some  it  wounds,  others  it  slays;  it  begins  the  course  of  its 
desires,  and  at  the  same  moment  completes  and  ends  it;  in  the  morn- 
ino"  it  will  lay  siege  to  a  fortress  and  by  night  will  have  taken  it,  for 
there  is  no  power  that  can  resist  it ;  so  what  are  you  in  dread  of,  what 
do  you  fear,  when  the  same  must  have  befallen  Lothario,  love  having 
chosen  the  absence  of  my  lord  as  the  instrument  for  subduing  you? 
and  it  was  alisolutely  necessary  to  complete  then  what  love  had  re- 
solved upon,  without  affording"  the  time  to  let  Anselmo  return  and  by 
his  presence  compel  the  work  to  be  left  unfinished ;  for  love  has  no 
better  agent  for  carrying  out  his  designs  than  opportunity  ;  and  of 
opportunity  he  avails  himself  in  all  his  feats,  especially  at  the  outset. 
All  this  I  "know  well  myself,  more  by  experience  than  by  hearsay, 
and  some  day,  senora,  I  will  enlighten  you  on  the  sulyect,  for  I  am 
of  young  flesh  and  blood  too.  Moreover,  Lady  Camilla,  you  did  not 
surrender  yourself  or  yield  so  quickly  but  that  first  you  saw  Lotha- 
rio's whole  soul  in  his  eyes,  in  his  sighs,  in  his  words,  his  promises 
and  his  gifts,  and  by  it  and  his  good  ((ualities  perci;ived  how  worthy 
he  was  of  your  love.  This,  then,  being  the  case,  let  not  these  scru- 
pulous and  prudish  ideas  trouble  your  imagination,  but  be  assured 
that  Lothario  prizes  you  as  you  do  him,  and  rest  content  and  satisfied 
that  as  you  are  caught  in  the  noose  of  love  it  is  one  of  worth  and  merit 
that  has  taken  you,  and  one  that  has  not  only  the  four  S's  that  they 
say  true  lovers  ought  to  have,^  but  a  complete  alphabet;  only  listen 
to  me  and  you  will  see  how  I  can  r-epeat  it  by  rote.  He  is,  to  my  eyes 
and  thinking.  Amiable,  Brave,  Courteous.  Distinguished,  P^legant, 
Fond,  Gay,  Honorable,  Illustrious.  Loyal,  Manly,  Noble,  Open, 
Polite,  Quickwitted,  Rich,  and  the  S's  according  to  the  saying,  and 
then  Tender,  Veracious :  X  does  not  suit  him,  for  it  is  a  rough  letter ; 
Y  has  been  given  already ;  and  Z  Zealous  for  your  honor." 

Camilla  laughed  at  her  maid's  alphabet,  and  perceived  her  to  be 
more  experienced  in  love  affairs  than  she  said,  which  she  admitted, 
confessing  to  Camilla  that  she  had  love  passages  with  a  young  man 
of  good  birth  of  the  same  city.     Camilla  was  uneasy  at  this,  dreading 

'  Prov.  67.  2  Prov.  f  DO. 

^  The  four  S's  that  should  qualify  a  h)vor  were  sahio^  solo,  so/idfn, 
secrete.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  Leonela's  alphabet  cannot  be  literally 
translated. 


292  DON    QUIXOTE. 

lest  it  might  prove  the  means  of  endangering  her  honor,  and  asked 
whether  her  intrigue  had  gone  beyond  Avords,  and  she  with  little 
shame  and  much  effrontery  said  it  had ;  for  certain  it  is  that  ladies' 
imprudences  make  servants  shameless,  who,  when  they  see  their  mis- 
tresses make  a  false  step,  think  nothing  of  going  astray  themselves, 
or  of  its  being  known.  All  that  Camilla  could  do  was  to  entreat 
Leonela  to  say  nothing  about  her  doings  to  him  whom  she  called  her 
lover,  and  to  conduct  her  own  affairs  secretly  lest  they  should  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  Anselmo  or  of  Lothario.  Leonela  said  she  would, 
but  kept  her  word  in  such  a  way  that  she  confirmed  Camilla's  appre- 
hension of  losing  her  reputation  through  her  means ;  for  this  aban- 
doned and  bold  Leonela,  as  soon  as  she  perceived  that  her  mistress's 
demeanor  was  not  what  it  was  wont  to  be,  had  the  audacity  to  inti'o- 
duce  her  lover  into  the  house,  confident  that  even  if  her  mistress  saw 
him  she  would  not  dare  to  expose  him;  for  tlie  sins  of  mistresses 
entail  this  mischief  among  others ;  they  make  themselves  the  slaves 
of  their  own  servants,  and  are  obliged  to  hide  their  laxities  and  de- 
pravities; as  was  the  case  with  Camilla,  who  though  she  perceived, 
not  once  but  many  times,  that  Leonela  was  with  her  lover  in  some 
room  of  the  house,  not  onl}-  did  not  dare  to  chide  her,  but  afforded 
her  opportunities  for  concealing  him  and  removed  all  difficulties,  lest 
he  should  be  seen  hy  her  husband.  She  w^as  unable,  however,  to 
prevent  him  fi-om  being  seen  on  one  occasion,  as  he  sallied  forth  at 
daybreak,  by  Lothario,  who,  not  knowing  who  he  was,  at  first  took 
him  for  a  spectre ;  but,  as  soon  as  he  saw  him -hasten  away,  muffling 
his  face  with  his  cloak  and  concealing  himself  carefully  and  cau- 
tiously, he  rejected  this  foolish  idea,  and  adopteil  another,  which 
Avould  have  been  the  ruin  of  all  had  not  Camilla  found  a  remedy. 
It  did  not  occur  to  Lothario  that  this  man  he  had  seen  issuing  at  such 
an  untimely  hour  from  Anselmo's  house  could  have  entered  it  on 
Leonela's  account,  nor  did  he  even  remember  there  was  such  a  per- 
son as  Leonela ;  all  he  thought  was  that  as  Camilla  had  Ijcen  light 
and  yielding  with  him,  so  she  had  been  with  another;  for  this  further 
penalty  the  erring  woman's  sin  brings  with  it,  that  her  honor  is  dis- 
trusted even  b}^  him  to  whose  overtures  and  persuasions  she  has 
yielded ;  and  he  believes  her  to  have  surrendered  more  easily  to 
others,  and  gives  implicit  credence  to  every  suspicion  that  comes  into 
his  mind.  All  Lothario's  good  sense  seems  to  have  failed  him  at 
this  juncture  ;  all  his  prudent  maxims  escai)ed  his  memoiy  ;  for  with- 
out once  reflecting  rationally,  and  without  more  ado,  in  his  impatience 
and  in  the  blindness  of  the  iealous  rao^e  that  s^nawed  his  heart,  and 
dying  to  revenge  himself  ujion  Camilla,  who  had  done  him  no  wrong, 
before  Anselmo  had  risen  he  hastened  to  him  and  said  to  him,  "  Know, 
Anselmo,  that  for  several  days  past  I  have  been  struggling  with  my- 
self, striving  to  withhold  from  thee  what  it  is  no  longer  possible  or 
right  that  I  should  conceal  from  thee.  Know  that  Camilla's  fortress 
has  surrendered  and  is  ready  to  submit  to  my  will ;  and  if  I  have  been 
slow  to  reveal  this  fact  to  thee,  it  was  in  order  to  see  if  it  were  some 
light  caprice  of  hers,  or  if  she  sought  to  ti\y  me  and  ascertain  if  the 
love  1  began  to  make  to  her  with  thy  permission  was  made  with  a 


CHAPTER    XXXIV.  293 

serious  intention.  I  thought,  too,  that  she,  if  she  were  what  she 
ought  to  he,  and  what  we  botli  believed  her,  woukl  have  ere  this 
given  thee  information  of  my  addresses;  but  seeing  that  she  delays, 
I  believe  the  truth  of  the  promise  she  has  given  me  that  the  next 
time  thou  art  absent  from  the  house  she  will  grant  me  an  interview  in 
the  closet  where  thy  jewels  are  kept  (and  it  was  true  that  Camilla 
used  to  meet  him  there)  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  thee  to  rush  j)rec'ipitately 
to  take  vengeance,  for  the  sin  is  as  yet  only  committed  in  intention, 
and  Camilla's  may  change  perhaps  between  this  and  tlie  appointed 
time,  and  repentance  spring  \\\)  in  its  place.  As  hitherto  thou  hast 
always  followed  my  advice  whollj-  or  in  part,  follow  and  observe  this 
that  I  will  give  thee  now,  so  that,  without  mistake,  and  with  mature 
deliberation,  thou  mayest  satisfy  thyself  as  to  what  may  seem  the 
best  course  ;  pretend  to  absent  thyself  for  two  or  three  days  as  thou 
hast  been  wont  to  do  on  other  occasions,  and  contrive  to  hide  thyself 
in  the  closet;  for  the  tapestries  and  other  things  there  afl'ord  great 
facilities  for  thy  concealment,  and  then  tliou  wilt  see  with  tliine  own 
eyes  and  I  with  mine  what  Camilla's  purpose  may  ))e.  And  if  it  be 
a  guilty  one,  which  may  be  feared  rather  than  expected,  with  silence, 
l)rudence,  and  discretion  thou  canst  thyself  become  the  insti-ument  of 
punishment  for  the  wrong  done  thee." 

Anselmo  was  amazed,  overwhelmed,  and  astounded  at  the  words 
of  Lothario,  which  came  upon  him  at  a  time  when  he  least  expected 
to  hear  them,  for  he  now  looked  upon  C'amilla  as  having  triumphed 
over  the  pretended  attacks  of  Lothario,  and  was  beginning  to  cnj(jy 
the  glory  of  her  victory.  He  remained  silent  for  a  considerable  time, 
looking  on  the  ground  with  fixed  gaze,  and  at  length  said,  "Thou 
hast  behaved,  Lothario,  as  I  expected  of  thy  friendship  :  I  will  follow 
thy  advice  in  everything;  do  thou  as  thou  wilt,  and  keep  this  secret 
as  thou  seest  it  should  be  kept  in  circumstances  so  unlooked  for." 

Lothario  gave  him  his  word,  but  after  leaving  him  he  repented 
altogether  of  what  he  had  said  to  him,  perceiving  how  foolishly  he  had 
acted,  as  he  might  have  revenged  himself  upon  Camilla  in  some  less 
cruel  and  degrading  way.  He  cursed  his  want  of  sense,  condemned 
his  hasty  resolution,  and  knew  not  what  course  to  take  to  undo  the 
mischief  or  find  some  ready  escape  from  it.  At  last  he  deciiled  upon 
revealing  all  to  Camilla,  and,  as  there  was  no  want  of  opp(n-tvmity 
for  doing  so,  he  found  her  alone  the  same  day;  but  she,  as  soon  as 
she  had  the  chance  of  speaking  to  him,  said,  "  Lothario  my  friend,  I 
miTst  tell  thee  I  have  a  scutow  in  my  heart  which  fills  it  so  that  it 
seems  ready  to  burst:  and  it  will  be  a  wonder  if  it  does  not;  for  the 
audacity  of  Leonela  has  now  reached  siich  a  pitch  that  every  night 
she  conceals  a  gallant  of  hers  in  this  house  and  remains  with  him  till 
morning,  at  the  expense  of  my  reputation ;  inasmuch  as  it  is  open  to 
any  one  to  question  it  who  may  see  him  quitting  my  hovise  at  such 
unseasonable  hours;  but  what  distresses  me  is  that  I  can  not  punish 
or  chide  her,  for  her  privity  to  our  intrigue  bridles  my  mouth  and 
keeps  me  silent  about  hers,  while  I  am  dreading  that  some  catas- 
trophe will  come  of  it." 

As  Camilla  said  this  Lothario  at  first  imagined  it  was  some  device 


294  DON    QUIXOTE. 

to  delude  liim  into  the  idea  that  the  man  he  had  seen  going  out  was 
Leonela's  lover  and  not  hers ;  but  when  he  saw  liow  she  wept  and 
suffered,  and  begged  him  to  help  her,  he  became  convinced  of  the 
truth,  and  the  conviction  completed  his  contusion  and  remorse;  how- 
ever, he  told  Camilla  not  to  distress  herself,  as  he  would  lake  meas- 
ures to  put  a  stop  to  the  insolence  of  Leonela.  At  the  same  time  he 
told  her  what,  driven  by  the  fierce  rage  of  jealousy,  he  had  said  to 
Anselmo,  and  how  he  had  arranged  to  hide  himself  in  the  closet  that 
he  might  there  see  plainly  how  little  she  preserved  her  fidelity  to  him  ; 
and  he  entreated  her  pardon  for  this  madness,  and  her  advice  as  to 
how  to  repair  it,  and  escape  safely  from  the  intricate  labyrinth  in 
which  his  imprudence  had  involved  him.  Camilla  was  struck  with 
alarm  at  hearing  what  Lothario  said,  and  with  mucli  anger,  and  ^reat 
good  sense,  she  reproved  him  '.md  rebuked  his  Ijase  design  and  the 
foolish  and  mischievous  resolution  he  had  made;  Init  as  woman  has 
by  nature  a  nimbler  wit  than  man  for  good  and  for  evil,  though  it  is 
apt  to  fail  when  she  sets  herself  deliberately  to  reason,  Camilla  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment  thought  of  a  way  to  remedy  what  was  to  all 
ajjpearance  irremedial)le,  and  told  Lothario  U)  contrive  that  the  next 
day  Anselmo  should  conceal  himself  in  the  place  he  mentioned,  for 
she  hoped  from  his  concealment  to  obtain  the  means  of  their  enjoy- 
ing themselves  for  the  future  without  any  appreliension  ;  and  without 
revealing  her  purpose  to  him  entirely  she  charged  him  to  be  careful, 
as  soon  as  Anselmo  was  concealed,  to  come  to  her  when  Leonela 
should  call  him,  and  to  all  she  said  to  him  to  answer  as  he  would  have 
answei-ed  had  he  not  known  that  Anselmo  was  listening.  Lothario 
pressed  her  to  explain  her  intention  fully,  so  that  he  might  with  more 
certainty  and  precaution  take  care  to  do  what  he  saw  to  be  nectlful. 

"  Iteil  you,"  said  Camilla,  •'  there  is  nothing  to  take  care  of  except 
to  answer  me  what  I  shall  ask  you : "  for  she  did  not  wish  to  explain 
to  him  beforehand  what  she  meant  to  do,  fearing  lest  he  should  be 
unwilling  to  follow  out  an  idea  which  seemed  to  her  such  a  good  one, 
and  should  try  or  devise  some  other  less  praetical)le  plan. 

Lothario  tliem  retired,  and  the  next  day  Anselmo,  under  pretence 
of  going  to  his  friend's  country  house,  took  his  departure,  and  then 
returned  to  conceal  himself,  which  he  was  able  to  do  easily,  as  Ca- 
milla and  Leonela  took  care  to  give  him  the  opportunity ;  and  so  he 
placed  himself  in  hiding  in  the  state  of  agitation  that  it  may  be  im- 
agined he  would  feel  Avho  expected  to  see  the  vitals  of  his  honor  laid 
bare  before  his  eyes,  and  found  himself  on  the  point  of  losing  tlic 
supi-eme  blessing  he  thought  he  possessed  in  his  beloved  Camilla. 
Having  made  sure  of  Anselmo's  being  in  his  hiding-place,  Camilla 
and  Leonela  entered  the  closet,  and  the  instant  she  set  foot  within  it 
Camilla  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "Ah  !  dear  Leonela,  would  it  not  be 
better,  before  I  do  what  I  am  unwilling  you  should  know  lest  you 
should  seek  to  prevent  it,  that  you  should  take  .Anselmo's  dagger 
that  I  have  asked  of  you  and  with  it  pierce  this  vile  heart  of  mine? 
But  no;  there  is  no  reason  why  T  should  suffer  the  punishment  of 
another's  fault.  1  will  first  knoV  what  it  is  tiiat  the  bold  licentious 
eyes  of  Lothario  have  seen  in  me  that  could  have  encouraged  him  to 


CHAPTER    XXXIV.  295 

reveal  to  me  a  design  so  base  as  that  vvliich  he  has  disclosed  regard- 
less of  his  friend  and  of  my  honor.  Go  to  the  window,  Leonela,  and 
call  him,  for  no  doubt  he  is  in  the  street  waiting  to  carry  out  his  vile 
project;  but  mine,  cruel  it  may  be,  but  honorable,  shall  be  carried  out 
first." 

"Ah,  seiiora,"  said  the  crafty  Leonela,  who  knew  lier  part,  "  what 
is  it  you  want  to  do  with  this  dagger?  Can  it  be  tliat  you  mean  to 
take  your  own  life,  or  Lothario's  ?  for  whichever  you  mean  to  do,  it 
will  lead  to  the  loss  of  your  reputation  and  good  name.  It  is  better 
to  dissemble  your  wi'ong  and  not  give  tills  wicked  man  the  chance  of 
entering  the  house  now  and  tinding  us  alone ;  consider,  senora,  we 
are  weak  women  and  he  is  a  man,  and  determineil,  and  as  he  ccnnes 
with  such  a  base  j^urpose,  blind  and  ui'ged  by  pas.sion,  perhaps  be- 
fore you  can  put  3'ours  into  execution  he  may  do  wliat  will  be  worse 
for  you  than  taking  your  life.  Ill  betide  my  master,  Anselmo,  for 
giving  such  authority  in  his  house  to  this  shameless  fellow !  And  sup- 
posing you  kill  him,  senora,  as  I  suspect  you  mean  to  do,  what  shall 
we  do  with  him  when  he  is  dead  ?  " 

"  What,  my  friend?  "  replied  Camilla,"  we  shall  leave  him  for  An- 
selmo to  bury  him;  for  in  reason  it  will  be  to  him  a  light  labor  to 
hide  his  OAvn  infamy  under  ground.  Summon  hira,  make  haste,  for 
all  the  time  T  delay  in  taking  vengeance  for  my  wrong  seems  to  me 
an  ottence  against  the  loyalty  I  owe  my  husband." 

Anselmo  was  listening  to  all  this,  and  every  word  that  Camilla 
uttered  made  him  change  his  mind ;  but  when  he  heard  that  it  vvas 
resolved  to  kill  Lothario  his  first  impulse  was  to  come  out  and  show 
himself  to  avert  such  a  disaster ;  but  in  his  anxiety  to  see  the  issue 
of  a  resolution  so  bold  and  virtuous  he  resti'ained  himself,  inteniiing 
to  come  forth  in  time  to  prevent  the  deed.  At  this  moment  Camilla, 
throwing  herself  upon  a  bed  that  was  close  by,  swooned  away,  and 
Leonela  began  to  weep  bitterly,  exclaiming,  "  Woe  is  me!  that  I 
should  be  fated  to  have  dying  here  in  my  arms  the  flower  of  virtue 
upon  earth,  the  ci'own  of  true  wives,  the  pattern  of  chastity!"  with 
more  to  the  same  eftect,  so  that  any  one  who  heard  her  would  have 
taken  her  for  the  most  tender-hearted  and  faithful  handmaid  in  the 
world,  and  her  mistress  for  another  persecuted  l^enelope. 

Camilla  was  not  long  in  I'ecovering  from  her  fainting  fit,  and  on 
coming  to  herself  she  said,  "  Why  do  you  not  go,  Leonela,  to  call 
hither  that  friend,  the  falsest  to  his  friend  the  sun  ever  shone  upon 
or  night  concealed?  Away,  run,  haste,  sjiced  !  lest  the  fire  of  my 
wrath  burn  itself  out  with  delay,  and  the  righteous  vengeance  that 
I  hope  for  melt  awa}'  in  menaces  and  maledictions." 

"I  am  just  going  to  call  him,  senora,"  said  Leonela;  "but  you 
must  first  give  me  that  dagger,  lest  while  I  am  gone  you  should  by 
means  of  it  give  cause  to  all  who  love  you  to  weep  all  their  lives." 

"  Go  in  peace,  dear  Leonela,  I  will  not  do  so,"  said  Camilla,  "  for 
rash  and  foolish  as  I  may  be,  to  your  mind,  in  defending  my  honor, 
T  am  not  going  to  be  so  much  so  as  that  Lucretia  who  they  say  killed 
herself  without  having  done  anything  wrong,  and  without  having 
first  killed  him  ou  whom  the  guilt  of  her  misfortune  lay.     I  shall 


296  DON    QUIXOTE. 

die,  if  I  am  to  die ;  but  it  must  be  after  full  vengeance  upon  him 
who  has  brought  me  here  to  weep  over  audacity  that  no  fault  of  mine 
gave  birth  to." 

Leonela  recjuired  much  pressing  before  she  would  go  to  summon 
Lothario,  but  at  last  she  went,  and  while  awaiting  her  return  Camilla 
continued,  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  "  Good  God  !  would  it  not  have 
been  more  prudent  to  have  repulsed  Lothario,  as  I  have  done  many  a 
time  before,  than  to  allow  him,  as  I  am  now  doing,  to  think  me  un- 
chaste and  vile,  even  for  the  short  time  I  must  wait  until  I  undeceive 
him  ?  No  doubt  it  would  have  been  better ;  but  I  should  not  be  avenged, 
nor  the  honor  of  my  husband  vindicated,  should  he  tind  so  clear  and 
easy  an  escape  from  the  strait  into  which  his  depravity  has  led  him. 
Let  the  traitor  pay  with  his  life  for  the  temerity  of  his  wanton  wishes, 
let  the  world  know  (if  haply  it  shall  ever  come  to  know)  that  Ca- 
milla not  only  preserved  lier  allegiance  to  her  husband,  but  avenged 
him  of  the  man  who  dared  to  wrong  him.  Still,  I  think  it  miirht  be 
better  to  disclose  this  to  Ansel rao.  But  then  I  have  called  his  atten- 
tion to  it  in  the  letter  1  wrote  to  him  in  the  country,  and,  if  he  did 
nothing  to  prevent  the  mischief  I  there  pointed  out  to  him,  I  sup- 
pose it  was  that  from  pure  goodness  of  heart  and  trustfulness  he 
would  not  and  could  not  believe  that  any  thought  against  his  honor 
could  harbor  in  the  breast  of  so  stanch  a  friend ;  nor  indeed  did  I 
myself  believe  it  for  many  days,  nor  should  I  have  ever  believed  it 
if  his  insolence  had  not  gone  so  far  as  to  make  it  manifest  by  open 
)n-esents,  lavish  promises,  and  ceaseless  tears.  But  why  do  I  argue 
thus?  Does  a  bold  determination  stand  in  need  of  arguments  ?  Surely 
not.  Then  fears  avaunt !  Vengeance  to  my  aid  !  Let  the  false  one 
come,  approach,  advance,  die,  yield  up  his  life,  and  then  befall  what 
may.  Pure  1  came  to  him  whom  Heaven  bestowed  upon  me,  ])ure 
1  shall  leave  him  ;  and  at  the  worst  bathed  in  my  own  chaste  blood 
and  in  the  foul  blood  of  the  falsest  filentl  that  friendship  ever  saw  ;  " 
and  as  she  uttered  these  woi'ds  she  paced  the  room  holding  the  im- 
sheathed  dagger,  with  such  irregular  and  disordered  steps,  and  such 
gestures  that  one  would  have  supposed  her  to  have  lost  her  senses, 
and  taken  her  for  some  violent  desperado  instead  of  a  delicate 
woman . 

Anselmo,  concealed  behind  some  tapesti'ies  where  he  had  hidden 
himself,  beheld  and  was  amazed  at  all,  and  already  felt  that  what 
he  had  seen  and  heard  was  a  sufficient  answer  to  even  greater  sus- 
picions ;  and  he  would  have  been  now  well  pleased  if  the  proof 
afforded  by  Lothario's  coming  were  dispensed  with,  as  he  feared 
some  sudden  mishap ;  but  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  showing  himself 
and  coming  forth  to  embrace  and  undeceive  his  wife  he  paused  as 
he  saw  Leonela  returning,  leading  Lothario.  Camilla  when  she  saw 
him,  drawing  a  long;  line  in  front  of  her  on  the  floor  with  the  dao^ofer, 
said  to  him,  "Lothario,  pay  attention  to  what  I  say  to  thee:  if  by 
any  chance  thou  darest  to  cross  this  line  thou  seest,  or  even  approach 
it,  the  instant  I  see  thee  attempt  it  that  same  instant  will  I  pierce 
my  bosom  with  this  dagger  that  I  hold  in  my  hand  ;  and  before  thou 
answerest  me  a  Avord  I  desire  thee  to  listen  to  a  few  fi-om  me,  and 


CHAPTER    XXXI V.  297 

afterwards  thou  shalt  reply  as  may  i)lease  thee.  First,  I  desire  thee 
to  tell  me,  Lothario,  if  thou  knowest  my  husband  Anselmo,  and  in 
what  lijjht  thou  regardest  him  ;  and  secondly  I  desire  to  know  if  thou 
knowes't  me  too.  Answer  me  this,  without  embarrassment  or  reflect- 
ing deeply  what  thou  wilt  answer,  for  they  are  no  riddles  I  put  to 
thee." 

Lothario  w^as  not  so  dull  but  that  from  the  first  moment  when 
Camilla  directed  him  to  make  Anselmo  hide  himself  lie  understood 
what  she  intended  to  do,  and  therefore  lie  fell  in  with  her  idea  .so 
readily  and  promptly  that  between  them  they  made  the  imposture 
look  more  true  than  truth;  so  he  answered  her  thus:  "I  did  not 
think,  fair  Camilla,  that  thou  wert  calling  me  to  ask  (juestioiis  so 
remote  from  the  object  with  which  I  come ;  but  if  it  is  to  defer  the 
promised  reward  thou  art  doing  so,  thou  mightest  have  put  it  off  still 
longer,  for  the  longing  for  happiness  gives  the  more  distress  the 
nearer  comes  the  hope  of  gaining  it;  but  lest  thou  shouldst  say  that 
I  do  not  answer  thy  questions,  I  say  that  I  know  thy  husband 
Anselmo,  and  that  we  have  known  each  other  from  our  earliest 
years  ;  I  will  not  speak  of  what  thou  too  knowest,  of  our  friendship, 
that  I  may  not  compel  myself  to  testify  against  the  wrong  that  love, 
the  mighty  excuse  for  greater  errors,  makes  me  inflict  upon  him. 
I'hee  I  know  and  hold  in  the  same  estimation  as  he  does,  for  were  it 
not  so  I  had  not  for  a  lesser  prize  acted  in  opposition  to  what  I  owe 
to  my  station  and  the  holy  laws  of  true  friendship,  now  broken  and 
violated  by  me  through  that  powerful  enemy,  love." 

"  If  tho\i  dost  confess  that,"  returned  Camilla,  "  mortal  enemy  of 
all  that  rightly  deserves  to  be  loved,  ^vith  what  face  dost  thou  dare 
to  come  before  one  whom  thou  knowest  to  be  the  miri-or  wherein 
he  is  reflected  on  whom  thou  shouldst  look  to  see  how  unworthy 
thou  wrongest  him?  But,  woe  is  me,  1  now  comprehend  what  has 
made  thee  give  so  little  heed  to  what  thou  owest  to  thyself;  it  must 
have  been  some  freedom  of  mine,  I'or  I  will  not  call  it  immodesty, 
as  it  did  not  proceed  from  any  deliberate  intention,  but  from  some 
heedlessness  such  as  women  are  guilty  of  through  inadvertence 
when  they  think  they  have  no  occasion  for  reserve.  But  tell  me, 
traitor,  wlien  did  I  by  word  or  sign  give  a  reply  to  thy  prayers  that 
could  awaken  in  thee  a  shadow  of  hope  of  attaining  thy  base  wishes? 
When  were  not  thy  professions  of  love  sternly  and  scornfully  re- 
jected and  rebuked?  When  were  thy  frequent  pledges  and  still 
more  frequent  gifts  believed  or  accepted?  But  as  I  am  persuaded 
that  no  one  can  long  persevere  in  the  attempt  to  win  loveunsustained 
by  some  hope,  I  am  willing  to  attribute  to  myself  the  blame  of  thy 
assurance,  for  no  doubt  some  thoughtlessness  of  mine  has  all  this 
time  fostered  thy  hopes;  and  therefore  will  I  punish  myself  and  in- 
flict upon  myself  the  penalty  thy  guilt  deserves.  And  that  thou 
mayest  see  that  being  so  relentless  to  myself  I  cannot  possibly  be 
otherwise  to  thee,  I  have  summoned  thee  to  be  a  witness  of  the 
sacrifice  I  mean  to  offer  to  the  injured  honor  of  my  honored  Inisband, 
wronged  by  thee  with  all  the  assiduity  thou  wert  capable  of,  and  by 
me  too  through  want  of  caution  in  avoiding  every  occasion,  if  I  have 


298  DON    QUIXOTE. 

given  any,  of  encouraging  and  sanctioning  thy  base  designs.  Once 
more  I  say  the  suspicion  in  my  mind  that  some  imprudence  of  mine 
has  engendered  these  lawless  thoughts  in  thee,  is  what  causes  me 
most  distress  and  what  I  desire  most  to  punish  with  my  own  hands, 
for  were  any  other  instrument  of  punishment  employed  my  error 
might  become  perhaps  more  widely  known ;  but  before  I  do  so,  in 
my  death  I  mean  to  inflict  death,  and  take  with  me  one  that  will 
fully  satisfy  my  longing  for  the  revenge  I  hope  for  and  have;  for  I 
shall  see,  wheresoever  it  may  be  that  I  go,  the  penalty  awarded  by 
inflexible,  unswerving  justice  on  him  who  has  placed  me  in  a 
position  so  desperate." 

As  slie  uttered  these  words,  with  incredible  enei'gy  and  swiftness 
slie  flew  upon  Lothario  witl)  the  naked  dagger,  so  manifestly  bent  on 
burying  it  in  his  breast  that  he  was  almost  uncertain  whether  these 
demonstrations  were  real  or  feigned,  for  he  was  obliged  to  have  re- 
course to  all  his  skill  and  strength  to  prevent  her  from  striking  him ; 
and  with  such  reality  did  she  act  this  strange  farce  and  mystification 
that,  to  give  it  a  color  of  truth,  she  determined  to  stain  it  with  her 
own  blood ;  for  perceiving,  or  pretending,  that  she  could  not  wound 
Lothario,  she  said,  "Fate,  it  seems,  will  not  grant  my  just  desire 
complete  satisfaction,  but  it  will  not  be  able  to  keep  me  from  satisfy- 
ing it  partially  at  least;  "  and  making  an  effort  to  free  the  hand  with 
the  dagger  which  Lothario  held  in  his  grasp,  she  released  it,  and 
directing  the  point  to  a  place  where  it  could  not  inflict  a  deep  wound, 
she  plunged  it  into  her  left  side  high  up  close  to  the  shoulder,  and 
then  allowed  herself  to  fall  to  the  ground  as  if  in  a  faint. 

Leonela  and  Lothario  stood  amazed  and  astounded  at  the  catas- 
trophe, and  seeing  Camilla  stretched  on  the  ground  and  bathed  in 
her  blood  they  were  uncertain  as  to  the  true  nature  of  the  act. 
Lothario,  terrifled  and  breathless,  ran  in  haste  to  pluck  out  the 
dae:s:er ;  but  when  he  saw  how  slio:ht  the  wound  was  he  was  relieved 
of  his  fears  and  once  more  admired  the  subtlety,  coolness,  and  ready 
wit  ol'  the  fair  Camilla ;  and  the  better  to  suppox't  the  part  he  had  to 
play  he  l)egan  to  utter  profuse  and  doleful  lamentations  over  her 
body  as  if  she  were  dead,  invoking  maledictions  not  only  on  himself 
but  also  on  him  who  had  been  the  means  of  placing  him  in  such  a 
l)osition :  and  knowing  that  his  friend  Anselmo  heard  him  he  spoke 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a  listener  feel  much  more  pity  for  him  than 
for  Camilla,  even  though  he  supposed  her  dead.  Leonela  took  her 
up  in  her  arms  and  laid  her  on  the  bed,  entreating  Lothario  to  go  in 
quest  of  some  one  to  attend  to  her  wound  in  secret,  and  at  the  same 
time  asking  his  advice  and  opinion  as  to  what  they  should  sa}'^  to 
Anselmo  about  his  lady's  wound  if  he  should  chance  to  retui-n  before 
it  was  healed.  He  replied  they  might  say  what  they  liked,  for  he 
was  not  in  a  state  to  give  advice  that  would  be  of  any  use ;  all  he 
could  tell  her  was  to  try  and  stanch  the  blood,  as  he  was  going  where 
he  should  never  more  be  seen ;  and  with  every  a]>pearance  of  deep 
grief  and  sorrow  he  left  the  house ;  but  when  he  found  himself  alone, 
and  where  there  was  nobody  to  see  him,  he  crossed  himself  unceas- 
ingly, lost  in  wonder  at  the  adroitness  of  Camilla  and  the  consistent 


CHAPTER    XXXIV.  299 

acting  of  Leonela.  He  reHected  how  convinced  Anselmo  would  be 
tliat  he  had  a  second  Portia  for  a  wife,  and  he  looked  forward 
anxiously  to  meeting  him  in  order  to  rejoice  together  over  falsehood 
and  truth  the  most  craftily  veiled  that  could  possibly  be  imagined. 

Leonela,  as  he  told  her,  stanched  her  lady's  blood,  which  was  no 
more  than  sufficed  to  support  her  deception  ;  and  washing  the  wound 
with  a  little  wine  she  bound  it  up  to  the  best  of  her  skill,  talking  all 
(he  time  she  was  tending  her  in  a  strain  that,  even  if  nothing  else  had 
be(!n  said  before,  would  have  been  enough  to  assure  Anselmo  lliat  he 
had  in  Camilla  a  model  of  purity.  To  Leonela's  words  Camilla  added 
her  own,  calling  hei'self  cowardly  and  wanting  in  spirit,  since  she  had 
not  enough  at  the  time  she  had  most  need  of  it  to  rid  herself  of  the 
life  she  so  much  loathed.  She  asked  her  attendant's  advice  as  to 
whether  or  not  she  ought  to  inform  her  beloved  husband  of  all  that 
had  happened,  but  the  other  bade  her  say  nothing  about  it,  as  she 
would  lay  uijon  him  the  obligation  of  taking  vengeance  on  Lothario, 
which  he  could  not  do  but  at  great  risk  to  himself ;  and  it  was  the 
dutv  of  a  true  wife  not  to  give  her  husband  provocation  to  quarrel, 
hni,  on  the  contrai-y,  to  remove  it  as  far  as  possible  from  him. 

Camilla  replied  that  she  believed  she  was  right  and  that  she  would 
follow  her  advice,  but  at  any  rate  it  would  be  well  to  consider  how 
she  was  to  explain  the  wound  to  Anselmo,  for  he  could  not  help 
seeing  it;  to  which  Leonela  answered  that  she  did  not  know  how  to 
tell  a  lie  even  in  jest. 

"  How  then  caii  I  know,  my  dear?  "  said  Camilla,  "  for  1  should 
not  dare  to  forge  or  keep  up  a  falsehood  if  my  life  depended  on  it. 
If  we  can  think  of  no  escaj^e  from  this  difficulty,  it  will  be  better  to 
tell  him  the  plain  truth  than  that  he  should  find  us  out  in  an  untrue 
story." 

"  Be  not  uneasy,  senora,"  said  Leonela;  "between  this  and  to- 
morrow I  will  think  of  what  we  must  say  to  him,  and  perhaps  the 
wound  being  where  it  is  it  can  be  hidden  from  his  sight,  and  Heaven 
will  be  pleased  to  aid  us  in  a  purpose  so  good  and  honorable.  Com- 
pose yourself,  seiiora,  and  endeavor  to  calm  your  excitement  lest  my 
lord  find  you  agitated ;  and  leave  the  rest  to  my  cai'e  and  God's,  who 
always  suppoi'ts  good  intentions." 

Anselmo  had  with  the  deepest  attention  listened  to  and  seen  played 
out  the  tragedy  of  the  death  of  his  honor,  which  the  performers  acted 
with  such  wonderfully  eftective  truth  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  had 
Ijecome  the  realities  of  the  parts  they  played.  He  longed  for  night 
and  an  opportunity  of  escaping  from  the  house  to  go  and  see  his  good 
friend  Lothario,  and  with  him  give  vent  to  his  joy  over  the  precious 
jiearl  he  had  gained  in  having  established  his  wife's  purity.  Both 
mistress  and  maid  took  care  to  give  him  time  and  opportunity  to 
get  away,  and  taking  advantage  of  it  he  made  his  escape,  and  at 
once  went  in  quest  of  Lothario,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to  de- 
scribe how  he  embi-aced  him  when  he  found  him,  am!  the  things  he 
said  to  liim  in  the  joy  of  his  heart,  and  the  praises  he  bestowed  upon 
Camilla;  all  which  Lothario  listened  to  without  being  able  to  show 
any  pleasure,  for  he  could  not  forget  how  deceived  his  friend  was, 


300  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  how  dishonovably  he  had  wronged  hinj  ;  and  tliough  Anselmo 
could  see  that  Lothario  was  not  glad,  still  he  imagined  it  was  only 
because  he  had  left  CaniiUa  wounded  and  had  been  iiimself  the  cause 
of  it;  and  so  among  other  things  he  told  him  not  to  be  distressed 
about  Camilla's  accident,  for,  as  they  had  agreed  to  hide  it  from  him, 
the  wound  was  eviilently  trifling ;  and  that  being  so,  he  had  no  cause 
tor  fear,  but  should  henceforward  be  of  good  cheer  and  rejoice  with 
him,  seeing  that  by  his  means  and  adroitness  he  found  himself  raised 
to  the  greatest  height  of  happiness  that  he  could  have  venti;red  to 
hope  for,  and  desired  no  better  pastime  than  making  verses  in  praise 
of  Camilla  that  would  preserve  her  name  for  all  time  to  come. 
Lothario  commended  his  purpose,  and  promised  on  his  own  part  to 
aid  him  in  raising  a  monument  so  glorious. 

And  so  Anselmo  was  left  the  most  charmingly  hoodwinked  man 
there  could  be  in  the  world.  He  himself,  persuaded  he  was  conduct- 
ing the  instrument  of  his  glory,  led  home  by  the  hand  him  who  had 
been  the  utter  destruction  of  his  good  name ;  whom  Camilla  received 
with  averted  countenance,  though  with  smiles  in  her  heart.  The  de- 
ception was  cai'ried  on  for  some  time,  until  at  the  end  of  a  few 
months  Fortune  turned  her  wheel  and  the  guilt  which  iiad  been  until 
then  so  skilfully  concealed  was  published  abroad,  and  Anselmo  paid 
with  his  life  the  penalty  of  his  ill-advised  curiosity. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF  THE  HEROIC  AND  PRODIGIOUS  BATTLE  DON 
QUIXOTE  HAD  WITH  CERTAIN  SKINS  OF  RED  WINE,  AND 
BRINGS  THE  NOVEL  OF  "  THE  ILL-ADVISED  CURIOSITY  "  TO 
A    CLOSE. 

There  remained,  but  little  more  of  the  novel  to  be  read, 
when  Sancho  Panza  burst  forth  in  wild  excitement  from 
the  garret  where  Don  Quixote  was  lying,  shouting,  ''Run, 
sirs  !  quick  ;  and  help  my  master,  who  is  in  the  thick  of  the 
toughest  and  stiffest  battle  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  By  the  living 
God  he  has  given  the  giant,  the  enemy  of  my  lady  the  Prin- 
cess Micomicona,  snch  a  slash  that  he  has  sliced  his  head  clean 
off  as  if  it  were  a  turnip." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  brother  ?  "  said  the  curate, 
pausing  as  he  was  about  to  read  the  remainder  of  the  novel. 
"  Are  yon  in  yoiir  senses,  Sancho  ?  How  the  devil  can  it  be  as 
you  say,  when  the  giant  is  two  thousand  leagues  away  ?  " 

Here  they  heard  a  loud  noise  in  the  chamber,  and  Don 
Quixote  shouting  out,  "  Stand,  thief,  brigand,  villain ;  now  I 


DON    QUIXOTE   ATTACKING   THE   WINE  SKINS.      Vol.  I.      Page  301 


CHAPTER    XXXV.  301 

have  got  thee  and  thy  cimeter  shall  not  avail  thee  ! "  And 
then  it  seemed  as  thongh  he  were  slashing  vigorously  at  the 
wall. 

"  Don't  stop  to  listen,"  sa*d  Sancho,  "  but  go  in  and  part 
them  or  help  my  master :  though  there  is  no  need  of  that  now, 
for  no  doubt  the  giant  is  dead  by  this  time  and  giving  account 
to  God  of  his  past  wicked  life ;  for  I  saw  the  blood  flowing  on 
the  ground,  and  the  head  cut  off  and  fallen  on  one  side,  and  it 
is  as  big  as  a  large  wine-skin." 

"  May  I  die,"  said  the  landlord  at  this,  "  if  Don  Quixote  or 
Don  Devil  has  not  been  slashing  some  of  the  skins  of  red  wine 
that  stand  full  at  his  bed's  head,  and  the  spilt  wine  must  be 
what  this  good  fellow  takes  for  blood ;  "  and  so  saying  he  went 
into  the  room  and  the  rest  after  him,  and  there  they  found 
J)on  Quixote  iii  the  strangest  costume  in  the  world.  He  was 
in  his  shirt,  which  was  not  long  enough  in  front  to  cover  his 
thighs  completely  and  was  six  fingers  shorter  behind ;  his  legs 
were  very  long  and  lean,  covered  with  hair,  and  anything  but 
clean ;  on  his  head  he  had  a  little  greasy  red  cap  that  belonged 
to  the  host,  round  his  left  arm  he  had  rolled  the  blanket  of 
the  bed,  to  which  Sancho,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself, 
owed  a  grudge,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  held  his  unsheathed 
sword,  with  which  he  was  slashing  about  on  all  sides,  uttering 
exclamations  as  if  he  were  actiially  fighting  some  giant :  and 
the  best  of  it  was  his  eyes  were  not  open,  for  he  was  fast 
asleep,  and  dreaming  that  he  was  doing  battle  with  the  giant. 
For  his  imagination  was  so  wrought  upon  by  the  adventure  he 
was  going  to  accomplish,  that  it  made  him  dream  he  had  al- 
ready reached  the  kingdom  of  Micomicon,  and  was  engaged  in, 
combat  with  his  enemy ;  and  believing  he  was  laying  on  to 
the  giant,  he  had  given  so  many  sword  cuts  to  the  skins  that 
the  whole  room  was  full  of  wine.  On  seeing  this  the  landlord 
was  so  enraged  that  he  fell  on  Don  Quixote,  and  with  his 
clinched  fist  began  to  punuuel  him  in  such  a  way,  that  if  Car- 
denio  and  the  curate  had  not  dragged  him  off,  he  would  have 
brought  the  war  of  the  giant  to  an  end.  But  in  spite  of  all 
the  poor  gentleman  never  woke  until  the  barber  brought  a 
great  pot  of  cold  water  from  the  well  and  flung  it  with  one 
dash  all  over  his  body,  on  which  Don  Quixote  woke  up,  but 
not  so  completely  as  to  understand  what  was  the  matter. 
Dorothea,  seeing  how  short  and  slight  his  attire  was,  would 
not  go  in  to  witness  the  battle  between  her  champion  and  her 


302  DON    QUIXOTE. 

opponent.  As  for  Sancho,  he  went  searching  all  over  the  floor 
for  the  head  of  the  giant,  and  not  finding  it  he  said,  "  I  see 
now  that  it 's  all  enchantment  in  this  house ;  for  the  last  time, 
on  this  very  spot  Avhere  I  am  noV,  I  got  ever  so  many  thumps 
and  thwacks  without  knowing  who  gave  them  to  me,  or  being 
able  to  see  anybody ;  and  now  this  head  is  not  to  be  seen  any- 
where about,  though  I  saw  it  cut  off  with  my  own  eyes  and  the 
blood  running  from  the  body  as  if  from  a  fountain." 

"  ^Vhat  blood  and  fountains  are  you  talking  about,  enemy  of 
God  and  his  saints  ?  "  said  the  landlord.  "  Don't  you  see,  you 
thief,  that  the  blood  and  the  fountain  are  only  these  skins  here 
that  have  been  stabbed  and  the  red  wine  swimming  all  over  the 
roona  ?  —  and  I  wish  I  saw  the  soul  of  him  that  stabbed  them 
swimming  in  hell." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that,"  said  Sancho;  ''  all  I  know  is  it 
will  be  my  bad  luck  that  through  not  finding  this  head  my  coun- 
try will  melt  away  like  salt  in  water;" —  for  Sancho  awake  was 
far  worse  than  his  master  asleep,  so  much  had  his  master's 
l)romises  addled  his  wits. 

The  landlord  was  beside  himself  at  the  coolness  of  the  squire 
and  the  mischievous  doings  of  the  master,  and  swore  it  should 
not  be  like  the  last  time  when  they  went  without  paying ;  and 
that  their  privileges  of  chivalry  should  not  hold  gootl  this  time 
to  let  one  or  other  of  them  off  without  paying,  even  to  the  cost 
of  the  plugs  that  would  have  to  be  put  to  the  damaged  wine- 
skins. The  curate  was  holding  Don  Quixote's  hands,  who, 
fancying  he  had  now  ended  the  adventure  and  was  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Princess  ]\Iicomicona,  knelt  before  the  curate  and 
said,  *'  Exalted  and  beauteous  lady,  your  highness  may  live 
from  this  day  forth  fearless  of  any  harm  this  base  being  could 
do  you  ;  and  I  too  from  this  day  forth  am  released  from  the 
promise  I  gave  you,  since  by  the  help  of  God  on  high  and  by 
the  favor  of  her  by  whom  I  live  and  breathe,  I  have  fulfilled  it 
so  successfully." 

''  Did  not  I  say  so  ?  "  said  Sancho  on  hearing  this.  "  You 
see  I  was  n't  drunk  ;  there  you  see  my  master  has  already 
salted  the  giant ;  there  's  no  doubt  about  the  bulls  :  -^  my  coun- 
try is  all  right !  " 

Who  could  have  helped  laiighing  at  the  absurdities  of  the 
pair,  master  and  man  ?    And  laugh  they  did,  all  except  the  land- 

'  Prov.  228  —  expressive  probably  of  popular  aiixii'tv  on  the  eve  of  a 

bull-tight. 


CHAPTER    XXXV.  803 

lord,  who  cursed  himself  ;  liiit  at  length  the  barber,  Cardenio, 
and  the  curate  contrived  with  no  small  trouble  to  get  Don 
Quixote  on  the  bed,  and  he  fell  asleep  with  every  appearance 
of  excessive  weariness.  They'left  him  to  sleep,  and-  came  out 
to  the  gate  of  the  inn  to  console  Sancho  Panza  on  not  having 
found  the  head  of  the  giant ;  but  much  more  work  had  they  to 
appease  the  landlord,  who  was  furious  at  the  sudden  death  of 
his  wine-skins  ;  and  said  the  landlady,  half  scolding,  half  cry- 
ing, "  At  an  evil  moment  and  in  an  unlucky  hour  he  came  into 
ray  house,  this  knight-errant  —  would  that  I  had  never  set 
eyes  on  him,  for  dear  he  has  cost  rae  ;  the  last  time  he  went  off 
with  the  overnight  score  against  him  for  supper,  bed,  straw,  and 
barley,  for  himself  and  his  squire  and  a  hack  and  an  ass, 
saying  he  was  a  knight  adventurer  —  God  send  unlucky  ad- 
ventures to  him  and  all  the  adventurers  in  the  world  —  and 
therefore  not  bound  to  pay  anything,  for  it  was  so  settled  by 
the  knight-errantry  tariff :  and  then,  all  because  of  him,  came 
the  other  gentleman  and  carried  off  my  tail,  and  gives  it  back 
more  than  two  quartillos  ^  the  worse,  all  stripped  of  its  hair,  so 
that  it  is  no  use  for  my  husband's  purpose  ;  and  then,  for  a 
finishing  touch  to  all,  to  burst  my  wine-skins  and  spill  my 
wiiie  !  I  wish  I  saw  his  own  blood  spilt !  But  let  him  not  de- 
ceive himself,  for,  by  the  bones  of  my  father  and  the  shade  of 
my  mother,  they  shall  pay  me  down  every  quarto;  or  my  name 
is  not  what  it  is,  and  I  am  not  my  father's  daughter."  All 
this  and  more  to  the  same  effect  the  landlady  delivered  with 
great  irritation,  and  her  good  maid  Maritornes  backed  her  up, 
while  the  daughter  held  her  peace  and  smiled  from  time  to 
time.  The  curate  smoothed  matters  by  promising  to  make 
good  all  losses  to  the  best  of  his  power,  not  only  as  regarded 
the  wine-skins  but  also  the  wine,  and  above  all  the  depreciation 
of  the  tail  which  they  set  such  store  by.  Dorothea  comforted 
Sancho,  telling  him  that  she  pledged  herself,  as  soon  as  it 
should  appear  certain  that  his  master  had  decapitated  the  giant, 
and  she  found  herself  peacefully  established  in  her  kingdom, 
to  bestow  upon  him  the  best  county  there  was  in  it.  With 
this  Sancho  consoled  himself,  and  assured  the  princess  she 
might  rely  upon  it  that  he  had  seen  the  head  of  the  giant,  and 
more  by  token  it  had  a  beard  that  reached  to  the  girdle,  and 
that  if  it 'was  not  to  be  seen  now  it  was  because  everything  that 
happened  in  that  house  went  by  enchantment,  as  he  himself 

1  Quartillo  —  tlie  fourth  of  a  real. 


304  DON    QUIXOTE. 

had  proved  the  last  time  he  had  lodged  there.  Dorothea  said 
she  fully  believed  it,  and  that  he  need  not  be  uneasy,  for  all 
would  go  well  and  turn  out  as  he  wished.  All  therefore  being 
appeased,  the  curate  was  anxious  to  get  on  with  the  novel,  as 
he  saw  there  was  but  little  more  left  to  read.  Dorothea  and 
the  others  begged  him  to  fuiish  it,  and  he,  as  he  was  willing  to 
please  them,  and  enjoyed  reading  it  himself,  continued  the 
tale  in  these  words : 

The  result  was,  that  from  the  confidence  Anselmo  felt  in  the  virtue 
of  Camilla,  he  lived  happy  and  free  from  anxiety,  and  Camilla  pur- 
posely looked  coldly  on  J^othario,  that  Anselmo  might  suppose  her 
feelings  towards  him  to  be  the  opjjosite  of  what  they  were ;  and  the 
better  to  support  the  positio-n,  Lothario  begged  to  be  excused  from 
coming  to  the  house,  as  the  displeasure  with  which  Camilla  regarded 
his  presence  was  plain  to  be  seen.  But  the  befooled  Anselmo  said 
he  Avould  on  no  account  allow  such  a  thing,  and  so  in  a  thousand 
ways  he  ijecame  the  author  of  his  own  dishonor,  while  he  believed 
he  was  insui"ing  his  happiness.  Meanwhile  the  satisfaction  with 
which  Leonela  saw  herself  empowered  to  carry  on  her  amour  reachetl 
such  a  height  that,  regardless  of  everything  else,  she  followed  her 
inclinations  unrestrainedly,  feeling  confident  that  her  mistress  would 
screen  her,  and  even  show  her  how  to  manage  it  safely.  At  last  one 
night  Anselmo  heard  footsteps  in  Leonela's  room,  and  on  trying  to 
enter  to  see  who  it  was,  he  found  that  the  door  was  held  against  him, 
which  made  him  all  the  more  determined  to  open  it;  and  exerting 
his  strength  he  forced  it  open,  and  entered  the  room  in  time  to  see  a 
man  leaping  through  the  window  into  the  street.  He  ran  quickly  to 
seize  him  or  discover  who  he  was,  but  he  was  unable  to  eff"ect  either 
purpose,  for  Leouela  flung  her  arms  around  him  crying,  "  Be  calm, 
senor ;  do  not  give  way  to  passion  or  follow  him  who  has  escaped 
from  this ;  he  belongs  to  me,  and  in  fact  he  is  my  husband.'" 

Anselmo  would  not  believe  it,  but  blind  with  rage  drew  a  dagger 
and  threatened  to  stab  Leonela,  l)idding  her  tell  the  trnth  or  he 
would  kill  her.  She,  in  her  fear,  not  knowing  what  she  was  saying, 
exclaimed,  "  Do  not  kill  me,  senor,  for  I  can  tell  you  things  more 
important  than  any  you  can  imagine." 

"  Tell  me  then  at  once  or  thou  diest,"  said  Anselmo. 

"  It  would  be  impossible  forme  now,"  said  Leonela,  "I  am  so 
agitated :  leave  me  till  to-morrow,  and  then  you  shall  hear  from  me 
what  will  fill  j^ou  with  astonishment ;  but  rest  assured  that  he  who 
leajied  through  the  window  is  a  young  man  of  this  city,  who  has 
given  me  his  promise  to  become  my  husbaud." 

Anselmo  was  appeased  with  this,  and  was  content  to  wait  the  time 
she  asked  of  him,  for  he  never  expected  to  hear  anything  against 
Camilla,  so  satisfied  and  sure  of  her  virtue  was  he ;  and  so  he  quitted 
the  room,  and  left  Leonela  locked  in,  telling  her  she  should  not 
come  out  until  she  had  told  him  all  she  had  to  make  known  to  him. 


CHAPTER   XXXV.  305 

He  went  at  once  to  see  Camilla,  and  tell  her,  as  he  did,  all  that  had 
passed  between  him  and  her  handmaid,  and  the  ijromise  she  had 
given  him  to  inform  him  of  matters  of  serious  importance. 

There  is  no  need  of  saying  whetlier  Camilla  was  agitated  or  not, 
for  so  great  was  her  fear  and  dismay,  that,  mailing  sure,  as  she  had 
good  reason  to  do,  that  Leonela  would  tell  Anselmo  ail  she  knew  of 
her  faithlessness,  she  had  not  the  courage  to  wait  and  see  if  her 
suspicions  were  contirmed ;  and  that  same  night,  as  soon  as  she 
thought  that  Anselmo  was  asleep,  she  packed  up  the  most  valuable 
jewels  she  had  and  some  money,  and  without  being  observed  by  any- 
body escaped  from  the  house  and  betook  herself  to  Lothario's  to 
whom  she  related  what  had  occurred,  imploring  him  to  convey  her 
to  some  place  of  safety  or  fly  with  her  where  they  might  be  safe 
from  Anselmo.  The  state  of  perplexity  to  which  Camilla  reduced 
Lothario  was  such  that  he  Avas  unable  to  utter  a  word  in  reply,  still 
less  to  decide  upon  what  he  should  do.  At  length  he  resolved  to 
conduct  her  to  a  convent  of  which  a  sister  of  his  was  prioress ; 
Camilla  agreed  to  this,  and  with  the  speed  which  the  circumstances 
demanded,  Lothario  took  her  to  the  convent  and  left  her  there, 
and  tlien  himself  (juitted  the  city  without  letting  any  one  know  of 
his  dejiarture. 

As  soon  as  daylight  came  Anselmo,  without  missing  Camilla  from 
his  side,  rose  eager  to  learn  what  Leonela  had  to  tell  him,  and  hast- 
ened to  the  room  where  he  had  locked  lier  in.  He  opened  the  door, 
entered,  but  found  no  Leonela ;  all  he  found  was  some  sheets  knotted 
to  the  window,  a  plain  proof  that  she  had  let  herself  down  from  it 
and  escaped.  He  returned,  uneasy,  to  tell  Camilla,  but  not  finding 
her  in  bed  or  anywhere  in  the  house  he  was  lost  in  amazement.  He; 
asked  the  servants  of  the  house  about  her,  but  none  of  them  could 
give  him  any  explanation.  As  he  was  going  in  search  of  Camilla  it 
happened  by  chance  tliat  he  observed  her  boxes  were  lying  open,  and 
that  the  greater  part  of  her  jewels  were  gone ;  and  now  he  became 
fully  aware  of  his  disgrace,  and  that  Leonela  was  not  the  cause  of 
his  misfortune;  and,  just  as  he  was,  without  delaying  to  dress  him- 
self completely,  he  repaired,  sad  at  heart  and  dejected,  to  his  friend 
Lothario  to  make  known  his  sorrow  to  him ;  but  when  he  failed  to 
find  liim  and  the  servants  reported  that  he  had  been  al:)sent  from  his 
house  all  night  and  had  taken  with  him  all  the  money  he  had,  he  felt 
as  though  he  were  losing  his  senses ;  and  to  make  all  complete  on 
returning  to  his  own  house  he  found  it  deserted  and  empty,  not  one 
of  all  his  servants,  male  or  female,  i-emaining  in  it.  He  knew  not 
what  to  think,  or  say,  or  do,  and  his  reason  seemed  to  be  deserting 
him  little  by  little.  He  reviewed  his  position,  and  saw  himself  in  a 
moment  left  without  wife,  friend,  or  servants,  abandoned,  he  felt,  by 
the  heaven  above  him,  and  more  than  all  robbed  of  his  honor,  for  in 
Camilla's  disappearance  he  saw  his  own  ruin.  After  long  reflection 
he  resolved  at  last  to  go  to  his  friend's  country  house  where  he  had 
been  staying  when  he  afforded  opportunities  for  tlie  contrivance  of 
this  complication  of  misfortune.  He  locked  the  doors  of  his  house, 
mounted  his  horse,  and  with  a  broken  spirit  set  out  on  his  journey  ; 
Vol.  I.  —  20 


306  DON   QUIXOTE. 

but  he  had  hardly  gone  half-way  when,  harassed  by  his  reflections, 
he  had  to  dismount  and  tie  his  horse  to  a  tree,  at  the  foot  of  whicli 
he  threw  himself,  giving  vent  to  piteous  heart-rending  sighs ;  and 
there  he  remained  till  nearly  nightfall,  when  he  observed  a  man  ap- 
proaching on  horseback  from  the  city,  of  whom,  after  saluting  him, 
he  asked  what  was  the  news  in  Florence. 

The  citizen  replied,  "  The  strangest  that  have  been  heard  for  many 
a  day  ;  for  it  is  reported  abroad  that  Lothario,  the  great  friend  of  the 
wealthy  Anselmo,  who  lived  at  San  Giovanni,  carried  off"  last  night 
Camilla,  the  wife  of  Anselmo,  who  also  has  disappeared.  All  this 
has  been  told  by  a  maid-servant  of  Camilla's,  whom  the  governor 
found  last  night  lowering  himself  by  a  sheet  from  the  windows  of 
Anselmo's  house.  I  know  not  indeed,  precisely,  how  the  afl:air  came 
to  pass ;  all  I  know  is  that  the  whole  city  is  wondering  at  the  occur- 
rence, for  no  one  could  have  expected  a  thing  of  the  kind,  seeing 
the  great  and  intimate  friendship  that  existed  between  them,  so  great, 
they  say,  that  they  were  called  '  The  two  Friends.'" 

*' Is  it  known  at  all,"  said  Anselmo,  "what  road  Lothario  and 
Camilla  took?" 

'•  Not  in  the  least,"  said  the  citizen,  "  though  the  governor  has  been 
veiy  active  in  searching  for  them." 

"God  speed  you,  senor,"  said  Anselmo. 

"  God  be  with  you,"  said  the  citizen,  and  went  his  way. 

This  disastrous  intelligence  almost  robbed  Anselmo  not  only  of  his 
senses,  but  of  his  life.  He  got  up  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and 
reached  the  house  of  his  friend,  who  as  yet  knew  nothing  of  his  mis- 
fortune, but  seeing  him  come  pale,  Avorn,  and  haggard,  perceived 
that  he  was  suffering  some  heavy  affliction.  Anselmo  at  once  begged 
to  be  allowed  to  retire  to  rest,  and  to  be  given  writing  materials. 
His  wish  was  complied  with,  and  he  was  left  lying  down  and  alone, 
for  he  desired  this,  and  even  that  the  door  should  be  locked.  Finding 
himself  alone,  he  so  took  to  heart  the  thought  of  his  misfortune  that 
by  the  signs  of  death  he  felt  within  him,  he  knew  well  his  life  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  therefore  he  resolved  to  leave  behind  him  a 
declaration  of  the  cause  of  his  strangle  end.  He  begfan  to  write,  but 
before  he  had  put  down  all  he  meant  to  say,  his  breath  failed  him, 
and  he  yielded  up  his  life,  a  victim  to  the  suffering  which  his  ill-ad- 
vised curiosity  had  entailed  upon  him.  The  master  of  the  house  ob- 
serving that  it  was  now  late  and  that  Anselmo  did  not  call,  determined 
to  go  in  and  ascertain  if  his  indisjiosition  was  increasing,  and  found 
him  lying  on  his  face,  his  body  i)artly  in  the  bed,  partly  on  the 
writing-table,  on  which  he  lay  with  the  written  jjaper  open  and  the 
l^en  still  in  his  hand.  Having  first  called  to  him  without  receiving 
any  answer,  his  host  aj^proached  him,  and  taking  him  by  the  hand, 
found  that  it  was  cold,  and  saw  that  he  was  dead.  Greatly  sui-prised 
and  distressed  he  summoned  the  household  to  witness  the  sad  fate 
which  had  befallen  Anselmo ;  and  then  he  read  the  paper,  the  hand- 
writing of  which  he  recognized  as  his,  and  which  contained  these 
words  : 

"  A  foolish  and  ill-advised  desire  has  robbed  me  of  life.     If  the 


CHAPTER    XXXVI.  307 

news  of  my  death  should  reach  the  ears  of  Camilla,  let  her  know 
that  I  forgive  her,  for  she  was  not  bound  to  perform  miracles,  nor 
ought  I  to  have  required  her  to  perform  them  ;  and  since  I  have  been 
the  author  of  my  own  dislionor,  there  is  no  reason  why  "  — 

So  far  Anselmo  had  written,  and  thus  it  was  plain  that  at  this 
point,  before  he  could  finish  what  lie  had  to  say,  his  life  came  to  an 
end.  The  next  day  his  friend  sent  intelligence  of  his  death  to  his 
relatives,  who  had  already  ascertained  his  misfortune,  as  well  as  the 
convent  where  Camilla  lay  almost  on  the  point  of  accompanying  her 
husband  on  that  inevitable  journey,  not  on  account  of  tlie  tidings  of 
his  death,  but  because  of  those  she  received  of  her  lover's  departure. 
Although  siie  saw  herself  a  widow,  it  is  said  she  refused  either  to 
quit  the  convent  or  take  the  veil,  until,  not  long  afterwards,  intelli- 
gence reached  her  that  Lothario  had  been  killed  in  a  battle  in  which 
M.  de  Lautrec  had  been  recently  engaged  with  tlie  Great  Captain 
Gonzalo  Fernandez  de  Cordova  '  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  whither 
her  too  late  repentant  lover  had  repaired.  On  learning  this  Camilla 
took  the  veil,  and  shortly  afterwards  died,  worn  out  by  grief  and 
melancholy.  This  was  the  end  of  all  three,  an  end  that  came  of  a 
thoughtless  beginning. 

"  I  like  this  novel,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  but  I  can  not  persuade 
myself  of  its  truth  ;  and  if  it  has  been  invented,  the  author's 
invention  is  faulty,  for  it  is  impossible  to  imagine  any  husband 
so  foolish  as  to  try  such  a  costly  experiment  as  Anselmo's.  If 
it  had  been  represented  as  occurring  between  a  gallant  and  his 
mistress  it  might  pass  ;  Init  between  husband  and  wife  there  is 
something  of  an  impossibility  about  it.  As  to  the  way  in  which 
the  story  is  told,  however,  I  have  no  fault  to  find." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

WHICH    TKEATS    OF    MORB^    CUKIOUS    INCIDEJSTTS    THAT 
OCCURRED    AT    THE    INN. 

Just  at  that  instant  the  landlord,  who  was  standing  at  the 
gate  of  the  inn,  exclaimed,  "  Here  comes  a  fine  troop  of  guests  ; 
if  they  stop  here  we  may  say  gaiideavvus.'^ 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  said  Cardenio. 

^'  Four  men,"  said  the  landlord,  "  riding  a  lajmetu,'-^  with 

'  Lautrec  and  the  Great  Captain  were  not  engaged  in  tlie  same  cam- 
paigns. The  former  commanded  in  Italy  in  the  time  of  Francis  I.  and 
Charles  V.,  several  years  after  the  death  of  the  Great  Captain. 

^  i.e.  on  high  saddles  with  short  stirrups. 


308  DON    QUIXOTE. 

lances  and  bucklers,  and  all  with  black  veils,  and  with  them 
there  is  a  woman  in  white  on  a  side-saddle,  whose  face  is  also 
veiled,  and  two  attendants  on  foot." 

"  Are  they  very  near  ?  "  said  the  curate. 

"  So  near,"  answered  the  landlord,  "  that  here  they  come." 

Hearing  this  Dorothea  covered  her  face,  and  Cardenio  re- 
treated into  Don  Quixote's  room,  and  they  hardly  had  time  to 
do  so  before  the  whole  party  the  host  had  described  entered 
the  inn,  and  the  four  that  were  on  horseback,  who  were  of  high- 
bred appearance  and  bearing,  dismounted,  and  came  forward  to 
take  down  the  woman  who  rode  on  the  side-saddle,  and  one  of 
them  taking  her  in  his  arms  placed  her  in  a  chair  that  stood  at 
the  entrance  of  the  room  Avhere  Cardenio  had  hidden  himself. 
All  this  time  neither  she  nor  they  had  removed  their  veils  or 
spoken  a  word,  only  on  sitting  down  on  the  chair  the  woman 
gave  a  deep  sigh  and  let  her  arms  fall  like  one  that  was  ill  and 
weak.  The  attendants  on  foot  then  led  the  horses  away  to  the 
stable.  Observing  this  the  curate,  curious  to  know  who  these 
people  in  such  a  dress  and  preserving  such  silence  were,  went 
to  where  the  servants  were  standing  and  put  the  question  to 
one  of  them,  who  answered  him,  "  Faith,  sir,  I  can  not  tell  you 
who  they  are,  I  only  know  they-  seem  to  be  people  of  distinction, 
particularly  he  who  advanced  to  take  the  lady  you  saw  in  his 
arms  ;  and  I  say  so  because  all  the  rest  show  him  respect,  and 
nothing  is  done  except  what  he  directs  and  orders." 

"  And  the  lady,  who  is  she  ?  "  asked  the  curate. 

"  That  I  can  not  tell  you  either,"  said  the  servant,  "  for  I 
have  not  seen  her  face  all  the  way  :  I  have  indeed  heard  her 
sigh  many  times  and  utter  such  groans  that  she  seems  to  be 
giving  up  the  ghost  every  time  :  but  it  is  no  wonder  if  we  do 
know  more  than  we  have  told  you,  as  my  comrade  and  I  have 
only  been  in  their  company  two  days,  for  having  met  us  on  the 
road  they  begged  and  persuaded  us  to  accompany  them  to 
Andalusia,  promising  to  pay  us  well." 

"And  have  you  heard  any  of  them  called  by  his  name?" 
asked  the  curate. 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  the  servant ;  "  they  all  preserve  a  mar- 
vellous silence  on  the  road,  for  not  a  sound  is  to  be  heard 
among  them  except  the  poor  lady's  sighs  and  sobs,  which  make 
us  pity  her ;  and  we  feel  sure  that  wherever  it  is  she  is  going, 
it  is  against  her  will,  and  as  far  as  one  can  judge  from  her 
dress  she  is  a  nun  or,  what  is  more  likely,  about  to  become  one ; 


CHAPTER   XXXVI.  309 

and  perhaps  it  is  because  taking  tlie  vows  is  not  of  her  own 
free  will,  that  she  is  so  unhappy  as  she  seems  to  be." 

"  That  may  well  be,"  said  the  curate,  and  leaving  them  he 
returned  to  where  Dorothea  was,  who,  hearing  the  veiled  lady 
sigh,  moved  by  natural  compassion  drew  near  to  her  and  said, 
"  What  are  you  suffering  from,  senora  ?  If  it  be  anything  that 
women  are  accustomed,  and  know  how  to  relieve,  I  for  my  part 
offer  you  my  services  with  all  my  heart." 

To  this  the  unhappy  lady  made  no  reply  ;  and  though  ])oro- 
thea  repeated  her  offers  more  earnestly  she  still  kept  silence, 
until  the  gentleman  with  the  veil,  who,  the  servant  said,  was 
obeyed  by  the  rest,  approached  and  said  to  Dorothea,  "  Do  not 
give  yourself  the  trouble,  senora,  of  making  any  otters  to  that 
woman,  for  it  is  her  way  to  give  no  thanks  for  anything  that  is 
done  for  her  ;  and  do  not  try  to  make  her  answer  unless  you 
want  to  hear  some  lie  from  her  lips." 

"  I  have  never  told  a  lie,"  was  the  immediate  reply  of  lier 
who  had  been  silent  until  now ;  "on  the  contrary,  it  is  because 
I  am  so  truthful  and  so  ignorant  of  lying  devices  that  I  am 
now  in  this  miserable  condition  ;  and  this  I  call  you  yourself  to 
witness,  for  it  is  my  unstained  truth  that  has  made  you  false 
and  a  liar." 

Cardenio  heard  these  words  clearly  and  distinctly,  being 
quite  close  to  the  speaker,  for  there  was  only  the  door  of  Don 
Quixote's  room  between  them,  and  the  instant  he  did  so,  utter- 
ing a  loud  exclamation  he  cried,  "  Good  God !  what  is  this  I 
hear  ?  What  voice  is  this  that  has  reached  my  ears  ?  "  kStar- 
tled  at  the  voice  the  lady  turned  her  head ;  and  not  seeing  the 
speaker  she  stood  up  and  attempted  to  enter  the  room  ;  observ- 
ing which  the  gentleman  held  her  back,  preventing  her  from 
moving  a  step.  In  her  agitation  and  sudden  movement  the 
silk  with  which  she  had  covered  her  face  fell  off  and  disclosed 
a  countenance  of  incomparable  and  marvellous  beauty,  l)ut 
pale  and  terrified ;  for  she  kept  turning  her  eyes,  everywhere 
she  could  direct  her  gaze,  with  an  eagerness  that  made  her 
look  as  if  she  had  lost  her  senses,  and  so  marked  that  it  ex- 
cited the  pity  of  Dorothea  and  all  who  beheld  her,  though 
they  knew  not  what  caused  it.  The  gentleman  grasped  her 
firmly  by  the  shoiilders,  and  being  so  fully  occupied  with 
holding  her  back,  he  was  unable  to  put  a  hand  to  his  veil 
which  was  falling  off,  as  it  did  at  length  entirely,  and  Doro- 
thea, who  was  holding  the  lady  in  her  arms,  raising  her  eyes 


310  DON    QUIXOTE. 

saw  that  he  who  likewise  held  her  was  her  husband,  Don 
Fernando.  The  instant  she  recognized  him,  with  a  prolonged 
plaintive  cry  drawn  from  the  depths  of  her  heart,  she  fell 
backwards  fainting,  and  but  for  the  barber  being  close  by  to 
catch  her  in  his  arms,  she  would  have  fallen  completely  to 
the  ground.  The  curate  at  once  hastened  to  uncover  her 
face  and  throw  water  on  it,  and  as  he  did  so  Don  Fernando, 
for  he  it  was  who  held  the  other  in  his  arms,  recognized  her 
and  stood  as  if  death-stricken  by  the  sight ;  not,  however, 
relaxing  his  grasp  of  Luscinda,  for  it  was  she  that  was 
struggling  to  release  herself  from  his  hold,  having  recog- 
nized Cardenio  by  his  voice,  as  he  had  recognized  her.  Car- 
denio  also  heard  Dorothea's  cry  as  she  fell  fainting,  and 
imagining  that  it  came  from  his  Luscinda  burst  forth  in  terror 
from  the  room,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  Don  Fernando 
with  Luscinda  in  his  arms.  Don  Fernando,  too,  knew  Car- 
denio at  once ;  and  all  three,  Luscinda,  ( -ardenio,  and  Doro- 
thea,-' stood  in  silent  amazement  scarcely  knowing  what  had 
happened  to  them. 

They  gazed  at  one  another  without  s})eaking,  Dorothea  at 
Don  Fernando,  Don  Fernando  at  Cardenio,  Cardenio  at  Lu- 
scinda, and  Luscinda  at  Cardenio.  The  first  to  break  silenc.e 
was  Luscinda,  who  thus  addressed  Don  Fernando :  "  Leave 
me,  Senor  Don  Fernando,  for  the  sake  of  what  you  owe  to 
yourself  ;  if  no  other  reason  will  induce  you,  leave  me  to  cling 
to  the  wall  of  which  I  am  the  ivy,  to  the  support  from  which 
neither  your  importunities,  nor  your  threats,  nor  yoiir  prom- 
ises, nor  your  gifts  have  been  able  to  detach  me.  See  how 
Heaven,  by  ways  strange  and  hidden  from  our  sight,  has 
brought  me  face  to  face  with  ni}^  true  husband ;  and  well 
you  know  by  dear-bought  experience  that  death  alone  will 
be  able  to  efface  him  from  my  memory.  May  this  plain 
declaration,  then,  lead  you,  as  you  can  do  nothing  else,  to 
turn  your  love  into  rage,  your  affection  into  resentment,  and 
so  to  take  my  life ;  for  if  I  yield  it  up  in  the  presence  of  my 
beloved  husband  I  count  it  well  bestowed ;  it  may  be  by  my 
death  he  will  be  convinced  that  I  kept  my  faith  to  him  to  the 
last  moment  of  life." 

MeanAvhile  Dorothea  had  come  to  herself,  and  had  heard 
Luscinda's  words,  by  means  of  which  she  divined  who  she  was ; 

'  Only  a  few  lines  back  we  are  told  Dorothea  had  fainted,  and  a  little 
farther  on  how  she  came  to  herself. 


aUAPTEli    XXX  Vt.  Bll 

but  seeint?  that  Don  Fernando  did  not  yet  release  her  or  reply 
to  her,  suuunoning  np  her  resolution  as  well  as  she  could  she 
rose  and  knelt  at  his  feet,  and  with  a  flood  of  bright  and  touch- 
ing tears  addressed  him  thus  : 

"  If,  my  lord,  the  beams  of  that  sun  that  thou  boldest 
eclipsed  in  thine  arms  did  not  dazzle  and  rob  thine  eyes  of 
sight  thou  wouldst  have  seen  by  this  time  that  she  who  kneels 
at  thy  feet  is,  so  long  as  thou  Avilt  have  it  so,  the  unha,p])y  and 
unfortunate  Dorothea.  1  am  that  lowly  peasant  girl  whom 
thou  in  thy  goodness  or  for  thy  pleasure  wouldst  raise  high 
enough  to  call  herself  thine  ;  I  am  she  who  in  the  seclusion  of 
innocence  led  a  contented  life  until  at  the  voice  of  thy  importu- 
nity, and  thy  true  and  tender  passion,  as  it  seemed,  she  opened 
the  gates  of  her  modesty  and  surrendered  to  thee  the  keys  of 
her  liberty  ;  a  gift  received  by  thee  but  thanklessly  as  is  clearly 
'  shown  by  my  forced  retreat  to  the  place  where  thou  dost  find 
me,  and  by  thy  appearance  under  the  circumstances  in  which  I 
see  thee.  Nevertheless,  I  would  not  have  thee  suppose  that 
I  have  come  here  driven  by  my  shame ;  it  is  only  grief  and 
sorrow  at  seeing  myself  forgotten  by  thee  that  have  led  me. 
It  was  thy  will  to  make  me  thine,  and  thou  didst  so  follow  thy 
will,  that  now,  even  though  thou  repentest,  thou  canst  not  help 
being  mine.  Bethink  thee,  my  lord,  the  unsurpassable  affection 
1  bear  thee  may  compensate  for  the  beauty  and  noble  birth  for 
which  thou  wouldst  desert  me.  Thou  canst  not  be  the  fair 
Luscinda's  because  thou  art  mine,  nor  can  she  be  thine  because 
she  is  Cardenio's ;  and  it  will  be  easier,  remember,  to  bend  thy 
will  to  love  one  who  adores  thee,  than  to  lead  one  to  love  thee 
who  abhors  thee  now.  Thou  didst  address  thyself  to  my  sim- 
plicity, thou  didst  lay  siege  to  my  virtue,  thou  wert  not  igno- 
rant of  my  station,  well  dost  thou  know  how  I  yielded  wholly 
to  thy  will ;  there  is  no  ground  or  reason  for  thee  to  plead  de- 
ception, and  if  it  be  so,  as  it  is,  and  if  thou  art  a  Christian  as 
thou  art  a  gentleman,  why  dost  thou  by  such  subterfuges  put  oft' 
making  me  as  happy  at  last  as  thou  didst  at  first  ?  And  if  thou 
wilt  not  have  me  for  what  I  am,  thy  true  and  lawful  wife,  at 
least  take  and  accept  me  as  thy  slave,  for  so  long  as  I  am  thine 
I  will  count  myself  happy  and  fortunate.  Do  not  by  deserting 
me  let  my  shame  become  the  talk  of  the  gossips  in  the  streets  ; 
make  not  the  old  age  of  my  parents  miserable  ;  for  the  loyal  ser- 
vices they  as  faithful  vassals  have  ever  rendered  thine  are  not 
deserving  of  such  a  return ;  and  if  thou  tliinkest  it  will  debase 


312  DON    QUIXOTE. 

thy  blood  to  mingle  it  Avith  mine,  reflect  that  there  is  little  or  no 
nobility  in  the  world  that  has  not  travelled  the  same  road,  and 
that  in  illustrious  lineages  it  is  not  the  woman's  blood  that  is  of 
account ;  and,  moreover,  that  true  nobility  consists  in  virtue,  and 
if  thou  art  wanting  in  that,  refusing  me  what  in  justice  tho\i 
owest  me,  then  even  I  have  higher  claims  to  nobility  than 
thine.  To  make  an  end,  senor,  these  are  my  last  words  to  thee  : 
whether  thou  wilt,  or  wilt  not,  I  am  thy  wife  ;  witness  thy 
words,  which  must  not  and  ought  not  to  be  false,  if  thou  dost 
pride  thyself  on  that  for  want  of  which  thou  scornest  me ; 
witness  the  pledge  which  thou  didst  give  me,^  and  witness 
Heaven,  which  thou  thyself  didst  call  to  witness  the  promise 
thou  hadst  made  me  ;  and  if  all  this  fail,  thy  own  conscience 
will  not  fail  to  lift  up  its  silent  voice  in  the  midst  of  all  thy 
gayety,  and  vindicate  the  truth  of  what  I  say  and  mar  thy  ^ 
highest  pleasure  and  enjoyment." 

All  this  and  more  the  injured  Dorothea  delivered  with  such 
earnest  feeling  and  such  tears  that  all  present,  even  those  who 
came  with  Don  Fernando,  were  constrained  to  join  her  in  them. 
Don  Fernando  listened  to  her  without  replying,  until,  ceasing 
to  speak,  she  gave  way  to  such  sobs  and  sighs  that  it  must 
have  been  a  heart  of  brass  that  was  not  softened  by  the  sight 
of  so  great  sorrow.  Luscinda  stood  regarding  her  with  no  less 
compassion  for  her  sufferings  than  admiration  for  her  intelli- 
gence and  beauty,  and  would  have  gone  to  her  to  say  some 
words  of  comfort  to  her,  but  was  prevented  by  Don  Fernando' s 
grasp  which  held  her  fast.  He,  overwhelmed  with  confusion 
and  astonishment,  after  regarding  Dorothea  for  -some  moments 
with  a  tixed  gaze,  opened  his  arms,  and,  releasing  Luscinda, 
exclaimed,  "  Thou  hast  conquered,  fair  Dorothea,  thou  hast 
conquered,  for  it  is  impossible  to  have  the  heart  to  deny  the 
united  force  of  so  many  truths." 

Luscinda  in  her  feebleness  was  on  the  point  of  falling  to  the 
ground  when  Don  Fernando  released  her,  but  Cardenio,  who 
stood  near,  having  retreated  behind  Don  Fernando  to  escape 
recognition,  casting  fear  aside  and  regardless  of  what  might 
happen,  ran  forward  to  support  her,  and  said  as  he  clasped  her 
in  his  arms,  "  If  Heaven  in  its  compassion  is  willing  to  let  thee 
rest  at  last,  mistress  of  my  heart,  true,  constant,  and  fair, 
nowhere  canst  thou  rest  more  safely  than  in  these  arms  that 

'  The  first  edition  has  firma  que  hiciste  ;  but  Don  Fernando  did  not  sign 
any  paper,  but  gave  Dorothea  a  ring, 


CHAPTER    XXXVL  313 

now  receive  thee,  and  received  thee  before  when  fortune  per- 
mitted me  to  call  thee  mine." 

At  these  words  Luscinda  looked  up  at  Cardenio,  at  first 
beginning  to  recognize  him  by  his  voice  and  then  satisfying 
herself  by  her  eyes  that  it  was  he,  and  hardly  knowing  what 
she  did,  and  heedless  of  all  considerations  of  decorum,  she 
flung  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  pressing  her  face  close  to 
his,  said,  "  Yes,  my  dear  lord,  you  are  the  true  master  of  this 
your  slave,  even  though  adverse  fate  interpose  again,  and  fresh 
dangers  threaten  this  life  that  hangs  on  yours." 

A  strange  sight  was  this  for  Don  Fernando  and  those  that 
stood  around,  filled  Avith  surprise  at  an  incident  so  luilooked 
for.  Dorothea  fancied  that  Don  Fernando  changed  color  and 
looked  as  though  he  meant  to  take  vengeance  on  Cardenio,  for 
she  observed  him  put  his  hand  to  his  sword  ;  and  the  instant 
the  idea  struck  her,  with  wonderful  quickness  she  clasped  him 
round  the  knees,  and  kissing  them  and  holding  him  so  as  to 
prevent  his  moving,  she  said,  while  her  tears  continued  to  flow, 
"  What  is  it  thou  wouldst  do,  my  only  refuge,  in  this  unforeseen 
event  ?  Thou  hast  thy  wife  at  thy  feet,  and  she  whom  thou 
wouldst  have  for  thy  wife  is  in  the  arms  of  her  husband : 
reflect  whether  it  will  l)e  right  for  thee,  whether  it  Avill  be  pos- 
sible for  thee  to  undo  what  Heaven  has  done,  or  whether  it  will 
be  becoming  in  thee  to  seek  to  raise  her  to  be  thy  mate  who  in 
spite  of  every  obstacle,  and  strong  in  her  truth  and  constancy, 
is  before  thine  eyes,  bathing  with  the  tears  of  love  the  face  and 
bosom  of  her  lawful  husband.  For  God's  sake  I  entreat  of  thee, 
for  thine  own  I  implore  thee,  let  not  this  open  manifestation 
rouse  thy  anger ;  but  rather  so  calm  it  as  to  allow  these  two 
lovers  to  live  in  peace  and  quiet  without  any  interference  from 
thee  so  long  as  Heaven  permits  them  ;  and  in  so  doing  thou  wilt 
prove  the  generosity  of  thy  lofty  noble  spirit,  and  the  world 
shall  see  that  with  thee  reason  has  more  influence  than  passion." 

All  the  while  Dorothea  was  speaking  Cardenio,  though  he 
held  Luscinda  in  his  arms,  never  took  his  eyes  off  Don  Fer- 
nando, determined,  if  he  saw  him  make  any  hostile  movement, 
to  try  and  defend  himself  and  resist  as  best  he  could  all  who 
might  assail  him,  though  it  should  cost  him  his  life.  But  now 
Don  Fernando's  friends,  as  well  as  the  curate  and  the  barber, 
who  had  been  present  all  the  while,  not  forgetting  the  worthy 
Sancho  Panza,  ran  forward  and  gathered  round  Don  Fernando, 
entreating  him  to  have  regard  for  the  tears  of  Dorothea,  and 


314  DON    QUIXOTE. 

not  suffer  her  reasonable  hopes  to  be  disappointed,  since,  as 
they  firmly  believed,  what  she  said  was  but  the  truth  ;  and 
bidding  him  observe  that  it  was  not,  as  it  might  seem, 
by  accident,  but  by  a  special  disposition  of  Providence  that 
they  had  all  met  in  a  place  where  no  one  could  have  expected 
a  meeting.  And  the  curate  bade  him  remember  that  only 
death  could  part  Luscinda  from  Cardenio  ;  that  even  if  some 
sword  were  to  separate  them  they  would  think  their  death 
most  happy  ;  and  that  in  a  case  that  admitted  of  no  remedy  his 
wisest  course  was,  by  conquering  and  putting  a  constraint  upon 
himself,  to  show  a  generous  mind,  and  of  his  own  accord  suffer 
these  two  to  enjoy  the  happiness  Heaven  had  granted  them. 
He  bade  him,  too,  turn  his  eyes  upon  the  beauty  of  Dorothea 
and  he  would  see  that  few  if  any  could  equal  much  less  excel 
her ;  while  to  that  beauty  should  be  added  her  modesty  and  the 
surpassing  love  she  bore  him.  But  besides  all  this,  he  reminded 
him  that  if  he  prided  himself  on  being  a  gentleman  and  a 
Christian,  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  keep  his  plighted 
word;  and  that  in  doing  so  he  would  obey  God  and  meet 
the  approval  of  all  sensible  people,  who  know  and  recognize 
it  to  be  the  privilege  of  beauty,  even  in  one  of  humble 
birth,  provided  virtue  accompany  it,  to  be  able  to  raise  itself 
to  the  level  of  any  rank,  Avithout  any  slur  upon  him  who  places 
it  upon  an  equality  with  himself  ;  and  furthermore  that  when 
the  potent  sway  of  passion  asserts  itself,  so  long  as  there  be 
no  mixture  of  sin  in  it,  he  is  not  to  be  blamed  who  gives  way 
to  it. 

To  be  brief,  they  added  to  these  such  other  forcible  argu- 
ments that  Don  Fernando's  manly  heart,  being  after  all 
nourished  by  noble  blood,  w^as  touched,  and  yielded  to  the 
truth  which,  even  had  he  Avished  it,  he  could  not  gainsay ;  and 
he  showed  his  submission,  and  acceptance  of  the  good  advice 
that  had  been  offered  to  him,  by  stooping  down  and  embracing 
Dorothea,  saying  to  her,  "  Rise,  dear  lady,  it  is  not  i-ight  that 
what  I  hold  in  my  heart  should  be  kneeling  at  my  feet ;  and  if 
until  now  I  have  shown  no  sign  of  what  I  own,  it  may  have 
been  by  Heaven's  decree  in  order  that,  seeing  the  constancy 
with  which  you  love  me,  I  may  learn  to  value  you  as  you 
deserve.  What  I  entreat  of  you  is  that  you  reproach  me  not 
with  my  transgression  and  grievous  wrong-doing ;  for  the  same 
cause  and  force  that  drove  me  to  make  you  mine  impelled  me 
to  struggle  against  being  yours ;  and  to  prove  this,  turn  and 


THE   RECONCILIATION.     Vol.  I.     Page  314. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI.  815 

look  at  the  eyes  of  the  now  happy  Liiseiiula,  and  you  Avill  see 
in  them  an  excuse  for  all  my  errors :  and  as  she  has  found  and 
gained  the  object  of  her  desires,  and  1  have  found  in  you 
what  satisfies  all  my  wishes,  i^iay  she  live  in  peace  and  con- 
tentment as  many  hax)py  years  with  her  Cardenio,  as  on  my 
knees  I  pray  Heaven  to  allow  me  to  live  with  my  Dorothea;" 
and  with  these  words  he  once  more  embraced  her  and  pressed 
his  face  to  hers  with  so  miich  tenderness  that  he  had  to  take 
great  heed  to  keep  his  tears  from  completing  the  proof  of  his 
love  and  repentance  in  the  sight  of  all.  Not  so  Luscinda,  and 
Cardenio,  and  almost  all  the  others,  for  they  shed  so  many 
tears,  some  in  their  own  hap})iness,  some  at  that  of  the  others, 
that  one  would  have  supposed  a  heavy  calamity  had  fallen 
upon  them  all.  Even  Sancho  Panza  was  weeping  ;  though 
afterwards  he  said  he  only  wept  because  he  saw  that  Dorothea 
was  not  as  he  fancied  the  queen  Micomicona,  of  whom  he 
expected  such  great  favors.  Their  wonder  as  well  as  their 
weeping  lasted  some  time,  and  then  Cardenio  and  Luscinda 
went  and  fell  on  their  knees  before  Don  Fernando,  returning 
him  thanks  for  the  favor  he  had  rendered  them  in  language  so 
grateful  that  he  knew  not  how  to  answer  them,  and  raising 
them  up  embraced  them  with  every  mark  of  affection  and 
courtesy. 

He  then  asked  Dorothea  how  she  had  managed  to  reach  a 
place  so  far  removed  from  her  own  home,  and  she  in  a  few 
fitting  words  told  all  that  she  had  previously  related  to  Car- 
denio, with  which  Don  Fernando  and  his  companions  were  so 
delighted  that  they  wished  the  story  had  been  longer ;  so 
charmingly  did  Dorothea  describe  her  misadventures.  When 
she  had  finished  Don  Fernando  recounted  what  had  befallen 
him  in  the  city  after  he  had  found  in  Lusciuda's  bosom  the 
paper  in  which  she  declared  that  she  was  Cardenio's  wife,  and 
never  could  be  his.  He  said  he  meant  to  kill  her,  and  would 
liave  done  so  had  he  not  been  prevented  by  her  parents,  and 
that  he  quitted  the  house  full  of  rage  and  shame,  and  resolved 
to  avenge  himself  when  a  more  convenient  opportunity  shoidd 
offer.  The  next  day  he  learned  that  Luscinda  had  disappeared 
from  her  father's  house,  and  that  no  one  could  tell  whither 
she  had  gone.  Finally,  at  the  end  of  some  months  he  ascer- 
tained that  she  was  in  a  convent  and  meant  to  remain  there 
all  the  rest  of  her  life,  if  she  were  not  to  share  it  with  Car- 
denio ;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  learned  this,  taking  these  three 


316  DON    QUIXOTE. 

gentlemen  as  his  companions,  lie  arrived  at  the  place  where 
she  was,  but  avoided  speaking  to  her,  fearing  that  if  it  were 
known  he  was  there  stricter  precautions  would  be  taken  in  the 
convent;  and  watching  a  time  when  the  porter's  lodge  was 
open  he  left  two  to  guard  the  gate,  and  he  and  the  other 
entered  the  convent  in  quest  of  Luscinda,  whom  they  found  in 
the  cloisters  in  conversation  with  one  of  the  nuns,  and  carry- 
ing her  off  without  giving  her  time  to  resist,  they  reached  a 
place  with  her  where  they  provided  themselves  with  what  they 
required  for  taking  her  away  ;  all  which  they  were  able  to 
do  in  complete  safety,  as  the  convent  was  in  the  country  at  a 
considerable  distance  from  the  city.  He  added  that  when 
Luscinda  foimd  herself  in  his  power  she  lost  all  consciousness, 
and  after  returning  to  herself  did  nothing  but  weep  and  sigh 
without  speaking  a  word ;  and  thus  in  silence  and  tears  they 
reached  that  inn,  which  for  him  was  reaching  heaven  where 
all  the  mischances  of  earth  are  over  and  at  an  end. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

IN    WHICH    IS    CONTINUEU    THE     STOKY    OK    THE    FAMOUS     PRIN- 
CESS   MICOMICOlSrA,    WITH    OTHEK    DKOLL    ADVENTURES. 

To  all  this  Sancho  listened  with  no  little  sorrow  at  heart  to 
see  how  his  hopes  of  dignity  were  fading  away  and  vanishing 
in  smoke,  and  how  the  fair  princess  Micomicona  had  turned 
into  Dorothea,  and  the  giant  into  Don  Fernando,  while  his 
master  was  sleeping  tranquilly,  totally  imconscious  of  all  that 
had  come  to  pass.  Dorothea  was  unable  to  persuade  herself 
that  her  present  happiness  was  not  all  a  dream  ;  Cardenio  was 
in  a  similar  state  of  mind,  and  Luscinda's  thoughts  ran  in  the 
same,  direction.  Don  Fernando  gave  thanks  to  Heaven  for  the 
favor  shown  to  him  and  for  having  been  rescued  from  the  intri- 
cate labyrinth  in  which  he  had  been  brought  so  near  the 
destruction  of  his  good  name  and  of  his  soul ;  and  in  short 
everybody  in  the  inn  was  full  of  contentment  and  satisfaction 
at  the  happy  issue  of  such  a  complicated  and  hopeless  business. 
The  curate  as  a  sensible  man  made  sound  reflections  upon  the 
whole  affair,  and  congratulated  each  upon  his  good  fortune  ;  but 
the  one  that  was  in  the  highest  spirits  and  good  humor  was  the 


CHAPTER    XXX VII .  817 

landlady,  because  of  the  promise  Cardenio  and  the  curate  had 
given  her  to  pay  for  all  the  losses  and  damage  she  had  sus- 
tained through  Don  Quixote's  means.  "  Sancho,  as  has  been 
already  said,  was  the  only  one  who  was  distressed,  unhappy, 
and  dejected  ;  and  so  with  a  long  face  he  went  in  to  his  mas- 
ter, who  had  just  awoke,  and  said  to  him,  "  Sir  Rueful  Counte- 
nance, your  worship  may  as  well  sleep  on  as  much  as  you  like, 
without  troubling  yourself  about  killing  any  giant  or  restoring 
her  kingdom  to  the  princess ;  for  that  is  all  over  and  settled 
now." 

"  I  should  think  it  was,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  for  I  have 
had  the  most  prodigious  and  stupendous  battle  with  the  gaint 
that  I  ever  remember  having  had  all  the  days  of  my  life  ;  and 
Avitli  one  back  stroke  —  swish  !  —  I  brought  his  head  tumbling 
to  the  ground,  and  so  much  blood  gushed  forth  from  him  that 
it  ran  in  rivulets  over  the  earth  like  Avater." 

"  Like  red  wine,  your  worship  had  better  say,"  replied 
Sancho ;  "  for  I  would  have  you  know,  if  you  don't  know  it, 
that  the  dead  giant  is  a  hacked  wine-skin,  and  the  blood  four- 
and-twenty  gallons  of  red  wine  that  it  had  in  its  belly,  and  the 
cut-off  head  is  the  bitch  that  bore  me  ;  and  the  devil  take  it  all." 

"  What  art  thou  talking  about,  fool  ?  "  said  Don  Quixote  ; 
"  art  thou  in  thy  senses  ?  " 

"  Let  your  Avorship  get  up,"  said  Sancho,  "  and  you  Avill  see 
the  nice  business  you  have  made  of  it,  and  Avhat  Ave  liaA-e  to 
pay  ;  and  you  will  see  the  queen  turned  into  a  private  lady 
called  Dorothea,  and  other  things  that  Avill  astonish  you,  if 
you  understand  them." 

*'  I  shall  not  be  surprised  at  anything  of  the  kind,"  returned 
Don  Quixote  ;  '■'  for  if  thou  dost  remember  the  last  time  Ave 
were  here  I  told  thee  that  everything  that  happened  here  Avas 
a  matter  of  enchantment,  and  it  Avould  be  no  Avonder  if  it 
were  the  same  noAv." 

"I  could  believe  all  that,"  replied  Sancho,  "if  my  blanket- 
ing Avas  the  same  sort  of  thing  also  ;  only  it  Avas  n't,  but  real 
and  genuine ;  for  I  saAV  the  landlord,  Avho  is  here  to-day,  hold- 
ing one  end  of  the  blanket  and  jerking  me  up  to  the  skies  A'^ery 
neatly  and  smartly,  and  Avith  as  much  laughter  as  strength ; 
and  Avhen  it  comes  to  be  a  case  of  knowing  people,  I  hold  for 
my  part,  simple  and  sinner  as  I  am,  that  there  is  no  enchant- 
ment about  it  at  all,  but  a  great  deal  of  bruising  and  plenty  of 
bad  luck." 


818  iJON    QUIXOTE. 

"  Well,  well,  God  will  give  a  remedy,"  said  Don  Qui- 
xote ;  "  hand  me  my  clothes  and  let  me  go  out,  for  I  want  to 
see  these  transformations  and  things  thou  speakest  of." 

Sancho  fetched  him  his  clothes  ;  and  while  he  was  dressing, 
the  curate  gave  Don  Fernando  and  the  others  present  an 
account  of  Don  Quixote's  madness  and  of  the  stratagem  they 
had  made  use  of  to  withdraAv  him  from  that  Pefia  Pobre  where 
he  fancied  himself  stationed  because  of  his  lady's  scorn.  He 
described  to  them  also  nearly  all  the  adventures  that  Sancho 
had  mentioned,  at  which  they  marvelled  and  laughed  not  a 
little,  thinking  it,  as  all  did,  the  strangest  form  of  madness  a 
crazy  intellect  could  be  capable  of.  But  now,  the  curate  said, 
that  the  lady  Dorothea's  good  fortune  prevented  her  from  pro- 
ceeding with  their  purpose,  it  would  be  necessary  to  devise  or 
discover  some  other  way  of  getting  him  home. 

Cardenio  proposed  to  carry  out  the  scheme  they  had  begun, 
and  suggested  that  Luscinda  would  act  and  support  Dorothea's 
part  sufficiently  well. 

"  No,"  said  Don  Fernando,  "  that  must  not  be,  for  I  want 
Dorothea  to  follow  out  this  idea  of  hers ;  and  if  the  worthy 
gentleman's  village  is  not  very  far  off,  I  shall  l)e  happy  if  I 
can  do  anything  for  his  relief." 

"  It  is  not  more  than  two  days'  journey  from  this,"  said  the 
curate. 

''  Even  if  it  were  more,"  said  Don  Fernando,  "  I  would 
gladly  travel  so  far  for  the  sake  of  doing  so  good  a  work." 

At  this  moment  Don  Quixote  came  out  in  full  panoply,  with 
Mambrino's  helmet,  all  dinted  as  it  was,  on  his  head,  his 
buckler  on  his  arm,  and  leaning  on  his  staff  or  pike.  The 
strange  figure  he  presented  filled  Don  Fernando  and  the  rest 
with  amazement  as  they  contemplated  his  lean  yellow  face 
half  a  league  long,  his  armor  of  all  sorts,  and  the  solemnity  of 
his  deportment.  They  stood  silent  waiting  to  see  what  he 
would  say,  and  he,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  fair  Dorothea, 
addressed  her  with  great  gravity  and  composure : 

"  I  am  informed,  fair  lady,  by  my  squire  here  that  your 
greatness  has  been  annihilated  and  your  being  abolished,  since, 
from  a  queen  and  lady  of  high  degree  as  you  used  to  be,  you 
have  been  turned  into  a  private  maiden.  If  this  has  been 
done  by  the  command  of  the  magician  king  your  father, 
through  fear  that  I  should  not  afford  you  the  aid  you  need  and 
are  entitled  to,  I  may  tell  you  he  did  not  know  and  does  not 


CHAPTER    XXX  VI  I.  310 

know  half  the  Mass,^  and  was  little  versed  in  the  annals  of 
chivalry;  for,  if  he  had  read  and  gone  through  them  as  atten- 
tively and  deliberately  as  I  have,  he  would  have  found  at 
every  turn  that  knights  of  less  renown  than  mine,  have  accom- 
plished things  more  difficult :  it  is  no  great  matter  to  kill  a 
whelj)  of  a  giant,  however  arrogant  he  may  be ;  for  it  is  not 
many  hours  since  I  myself  was  engaged  with  one,  and  —  I 
will  not  speak  of  it,  that  they  may  not  say  I  am  lying ;  time, 
however,  that  reveals  all,  Avill  tell  the  tale  when  we  least 
expect  it." 

"  You  were  engaged  with  a  couple  of  wine-skins,  and  not  a 
giant,"  said  the  landlord  at  this  ;  but  Don  Fernando  told  him 
to  hold  his  tongue  and  on  no  account  interrupt  Don  Quixote, 
who  continued,  "  I  say  in  cont-hision,  high  and  disinherited 
lad}^,  that  if  your  father  has  brought  about  this  metamorphosis 
in  your  person  for  the  reason  I  have  mentioned,  you  ought  not 
to  attach  any  importance  to  it ;  for  there  is  no  peril  on  earth 
through  which  my  sword  will  not  force  a  way,  and  with  it,  be- 
fore many  days  are  over,  I  will  bring  your  enemy's  head  to  the 
ground  and  place  on  yours  the  crown  of  your  kingdom." 

Don  Quixote  said  no  more,  and  waited  for  the  reply  of  the 
princess,  who,  aware  of  Don  Fernando's  determination  to  carry 
on  the  deception  until  Don  Quixote  had  been  conveyed  to  his 
home,  with  great  ease  of  manner  and  gravity  made  answer. 
*'  Whoever  told  you,  valiant  Knight  of  the  Kueful  Counte- 
nance, that  I  had  undergone  any  change  or  transformation  did 
not  tell  you  the  truth,  for  I  am  the  same  as  I  was  yesterday. 
It  is  true  that  certain  strokes  of  good  fortune,  that  have  given 
nie  more  than  I  coidd  have  hoped  for,  have  made  some  altera- 
tion in  me ;  but  I  have  not  therefore  ceased  to  be  what  I  was 
before,  or  to  entertain  the  same  desire  I  have  had  all  through 
of  availing  myself  of  the  might  of  your  valiant  and  invincil)le 
arm.  And  so,  seflor,  let  your  goodness  reinstate  the  father  that 
begot  me  in  your  good  opinion,  and  l)e  assured  that  he  was  a 
wise  and  prudent  man,  since  by  his  craft  he  found  out  such  a 
sure  and  easy  way  of  remedying  my  misfortune  ;  for  I  believe, 
senor,  that  had  it  not  been  for  you  I  should  never  have  lit  upon 
the  good  fortune  I  now  possess  ;  and  in  this  I  am  saying  what 
is  perfectly  true  ;  as  most  of  these  gentlemen  who  are  present 
can  fully  testify.  All  that  remains  is  to  set  out  on  our 
journey  to-morrow,  for  to-day  we  could  not  make  much  way  ; 

'  No  saber  de  la  misa  la  media^  a  familiar  mode  of  describing  ignorance. 


320  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  for  the  rest  of  the  happy  result  I  am  looking  forward  to, 
I  trust  to  (jod  and  the  valor  of  your  heart." 

80  said  the  sprightly  Dorothea,  and  on  hearing  her.  Don 
Quixote  turned  to  Sancho,  and  said  to  him,  with  an  angry  air, 
"  I  declare  now,  little  Sancho,  thou  art  the  greatest  little  vil- 
lain in  Spain.  Say,  thief  and  vagabond,  liast  thou  not  just 
now  told  me  that  this  princess  had  been  turned  into  a  maiden 
called  Dorothea,  and  that  the  head  which  I  am  persuaded  I 
cut  off  from  a  giant  was  the  bitch  that  bore  thee,  and  other 
nonsense  that  put  me  in  the  greatest  perplexity  I  have  ever 
been  in  all  my  life  ?  I  vow  "  (and  here  he  looked  to  heaven 
and  ground  his  teeth)  "  I  have  a  mind  to  play  the  mischief  with 
thee,  in  a  way  that  will  teach  sense  for  the  future  to  all  lying 
squires  of  knights-errant  in  the  world." 

"  Let  your  worship  be  calm,  senor,"  returned  Sancho,  "  for 
it  may  well  be  that  I  have  been  mistaken  as  to  the  change  of 
the  lady  princess  Micomicona  ;  but  as  to  the  giant's  head,  or 
at  least  as  to  the  piercing  of  the  wine-skins,  and  the  blood  be- 
ing red  wine,  I  make  no  mistake,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God  ; 
because  the  wounded  skins  are  there  at  the  head  of  your  wor- 
ship's bed,  and  the  red  wine  has  made  a  lake  of  the  room ;  if 
not  you  will  see  when  the  eggs  come  to  be  fried  ;  ^  I  mean 
when  his  worship  the  landlord  here  calls  for  all  the  damages  : 
for  the  rest,  I  am  heartily  glad  that  her  ladyship  the  queen  is 
as  she  was,  for  it  concerns  me  as  much  as  any  one." 

"  I  tell  thee  again,  Sancho,  thou  art  a  fool,"  said  Don 
Quixote  ;  "  forgive  me,  and  that  will  do." 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Don  Fernando  ;  "  let  us  say  no  more 
about  it ;  and  as  her  ladyship  the  princess  proposes  to  set  out 
to-morrow  because  it  is  too  late  to-day,  so  be  it,  and  we  will  pass 
the  night  in  pleasant  conversation,  and  to-morrow  we  will 
all  accompany  Senor  Don  Quixote  ;  for  we  wish  to  witness  the 
valiant  and  unijaralleled  achievements  he  is  about  to  perform 
in  the  course  of  this  mighty  enterprise  which  he  has  mider- 
taken." 

"  It  is  I  who  shall  wait  upon  and  accompany  you,"  said  Don 
Quixote  ;  "  and  I  am  much  gratified  by  the  favor  that  is  be- 
stowed upon  me,  and  the  good  opinion  entertained  of  me,  which 
I  shall  strive  to  justify  or  it  shall  cost  me  my  life,  or  even 
more,  if  it  can  possibly  cost  me  more." 

'  Prov.  120.  The  time  at  Avhich  the  truth  of  any  statement  will  be 
seen. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII.  321 

Many  were  the  compliments  and  expressions  of  politeness 
that  passed  between  Dun  C^nixote  and  Don  Fernando  ;  bnt  they 
were  brought  to  an  end  by  a  traveller  who  at  this  moment  en- 
tered the  inn,  and  who  seemed  from  his  attire  to  be  a  Christian 
lately  come  froni  the  country  of  the  Moors,  for  he  was  dressed 
in  a  short-skirted  coat  of  blue  cloth  with  half -Sleeves  and  with- 
out a  collar  ;  his  breeches  were  also  of  blue  cloth,  and  his  cap 
of  the  same  color,  and  he  wore  yellow  buskins  and  had  a  Moor- 
ish cutlass  slung  from  a  baldric  across  his  breast.  Behind 
him,  mounted  upon  an  ass,  there  came  a  woman  dressed  in 
Moorish  fashion,  with  her  face  veiled  and  a  scarf  on  her  head, 
and  wearing  a  little  brocaded  cap,  and  a  mantle  that  covered 
her  from  her  shoulders  to  her  feet.  The  man  was  of  a  rol)ust 
and  well-proportioned  frame,  in  age  a  little  over  forty,  rather 
swarthy  in  comjdexion,  with  long  mustaches  and  a  full  beai'd, 
and,  in  short,  his  appearance  was  such  that  if  he  had  been  well 
dressed  he  would  have  been  taken  for  a  person  of  quality  and 
good  birth.  On  entering  he  asked  for  a  room,  and  when  they 
told  him  there  was  none  in  the  inn  he  seemed  distressed,  and 
approaching  her  who  by  her  dress  seemed  to  be  a  Moor  he  took 
her  down  from  the  saddle  in  his  arms.*  Lusciuda,  Dorothea, 
the  landlady,  her  daughter,  and  Maritornes,  attracted  by  the 
strange,  and  to  them  entirely  new  costume,  gathered  round 
her  ;  and  Dorothea,  who  was  always  kindly,  courteoiis,  and 
quick-witted,  perceiving  that  both  she  and  the  man  who  had 
brought  her  were  annoyed  at  not  finding  a  room,  said  to  her, 
"  Do  not  be  put  out,  senora,  by  the  discomfort  and  want  of 
luxuries  here,  for  it  is  the  way  of  road-side  inns  to  be  without 
them;  still,  if  you  will  be  pleased  to  share  our  lodging  with  ns 
(pointing  to  Lusciuda)  perhaps  you  will  have  found  worse  ac- 
commodations in  the  course  of  your  journey." 

To  this  the  veiled  lady  made  no  reply ;  all  she  did  was  to 
rise  from  her  seat,  crossing  her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  bowing 
her  head  and  bending  her  body  as  a  sign  that  she  returned 
thanks.  From  her  silence  they  concluded  that  she  must  be  a 
Moor  and  unable  to  speak  a  Christian  tongue. 

At  this  moment  the  captive  ^  came  up,  having  been  until 
now  otherwise  engaged,  and  seeing  that  they  all  stood  round 
his  companion  and  that  she  made  no  reply  to  what  they  ad- 
dressed to  her,  he  said,  "  Ladies,  this  damsel  hardly  under- 
stands my  language  and  can  speak  none  but  that  of  her  own 

'  Cervantes  forgets  that  he  has  not  as  yet  said  anything  about  his  captivity. 
Vol.  I.  —  21 


322  DON    QUIXOTE. 

country,  for  which  reasou  she  does  not  and  can  not  answer 
what  has  been  asked  of  her." 

"Nothmg  has  been  asked  of  her,"  returned  Luscinda;  "  she 
has  only  been  offered  our  company  for  this  evening  and  a 
share  of  the  quarters  we  occupy,  where  she  shall  be  made 
as  comfortable  as  the  circumstances  allow,  with  the  good  will 
we  are  bound  to  show  all  strangers  that  stand  in  need  of  it, 
especially  if  it  be  a  woman  to  whom  the  service  is  rendered." 

"  On  her  part  and  my  own,  senora,"  replied  the  captive,  ''  I 
kiss  your  hands,  and  I  esteem  highly,  as  I  ought,  the  favor 
you  have  offered,  which,  on  such  an  occasion  and  coming  from 
persons  of  your  appearance,  is,  it  is  plain  to  see,  a  very  great 
one." 

''  Tell  me,  seilor,"  said  Dorothea,  "  is  this  lady  a  Christian 
or  a  Moor  ?  for  her  dress  and  her  silence  lead  us  to  imagine 
that  she  is  what  we  could  wish  she  was  not." 

"  In  dress  and  outwardly,"  said  he,  "  she  is  a  Moor,  but  at 
heart  she  is  a  thoroughly  good  Christian,  for  she  has  the 
greatest  desire  to  become  one." 

"  Then  she  has  not  been  baptized  ?  "  returned  Luscinda. 

"  There  has  been  no  opportunity^  for  that,"  replied  the  cap- 
tive, "since  she  left  Algiers,  her  native  country  and  home; 
and  up  to  the  present  she  has  not  found  herself  in  any  such 
imminent  danger  of  death  as  to  make  it  necessary  to  baptize 
her  before  she  has  been  instructed  in  all  the  ceremonies  our 
holy  mother  Church  ordains  ;  but,  please  God,  ere  long  she 
shall  be  baptized  with  the  solemnity  befitting  her  quality, 
which  is  higher  than  her  dress  or  mine  indicates." 

By  these  words  he  excited  a  desire  in  all  who  heard  them 
to  know  who  the  Moorish  lady  and  the  captive  were,  but  no 
one  liked  to  ask  jiist  then,  seeing  that  it  was  a  fitter  moment 
for  helping  them  to  rest  themselves  than  for  questioning  them 
about  their  lives.  Dorothea  took  the  IMoorish  lady  by  the  hand 
and  leading  her  to  a  seat  beside  herself,  requested  her  to  re- 
move her  veil.  She  looked  at  the  captive  as  if  to  ask  him  what 
they  meant  and  what  she  was  to  do.  He  said  to  her  in  Arabic 
that  they  asked  her  to  take  off  her  veil,  and  thereupon  she 
removed  it  and  disclosed  a  countenance  so  lovely,  that  to  Doro- 
thea she  seemed  more  beautiful  than  Luscinda,  and  to  Luscinda 
more  beautiful  than  Dorothea,  and  all  the  by-standers  felt  that  if 
any  beauty  could  compare  with  theirs  it  was  the  Moorish  lady's, 
and  there  were  even  those  who  were  inclined  to  give  it  somewhat 


CHAPTER    XXXVII.  323 

the  preferei^ce.  And  as  it  is  the  privilege  and  charm  of  beauty 
to  win  the  lieart  and  secure  good-will,  all  forthwith  became 
eager  to  show  kindness  and  attention  to  the  lovely  Moor. 

Don  Fernando  asked  the  captive  what  her  name  was,  and  he 
replied  that  it  was  Lela  Zoraida ;  but  the  instant  she  heard 
him,  she  guessed  what  the  Christian  had  asked,  and  said  hastily, 
with  some  displeasure  and  energy,  "  No,  not  Zoraida ;  Maria, 
Maria !  "  giving  them  to  understand  that  she  was  called  "  Maria  " 
and  not  "  Zoraida."  These  words,  and  the  touching  earnest- 
ness with  which  she  uttered  them,  drew  more  than  one  tear  from 
some  of  the  listeners,  particularly  the  women,  who  are  by  nat- 
ure tender-hearted  and  compassionate.  Luscinda  embraced  her 
affectionately,  saying,  "  Yes,  yes,  Maria,  Maria,"  to  which  the 
Moor  replied,  "  Yes,  yes,  Maria ;  Zoraida  macange,"  ^  which 
means  '<  not  Zoraida." 

Night  was  now  approaching,  and  by  the  orders  of  those  who 
accompanied  Don  Fernando  the  landlord  had  taken  care  and 
pains  to  prepare  for  them  the  best  supper  that  was  in  his  power. 
The  hour,  therefore,  having  arrived  they  all  took  their  seats  at 
a  long  table  like  a  refectory  one,  for  round  or  square  table 
there  was  none  in  the  inn,  and  the  seat  of  honor  at  the  head  of 
it,  though  he  was  for  refusing  it,  they  assigned  to  Don  Quixote, 
who  desired  the  lady  Micomicona  to  place  herself  by  his  side, 
as  he  was  her  protector.  Luscinda  and  Zoraida  took  their 
places  next  her,  opposite  to  them  were  Don  Fernando  and 
Cardenio,  and  next  the  captive  and  the  other  gentlemen,  and  by 
the  side  of  the  ladies,  the  curate  and  the  barber.  And  so  they 
supped  in  high  enjoyment,  which  was  increased  when  they  ob- 
served Don  Quixote  leave  off  eating,  and,  moved  by  an  impulse 
like  that  which  made  him  deliver  himself  at  such  length  when 
he  supped  with  the  goatherds,  began  to  address  them  : 

"  Verily,  gentlemen,  if  we  reflect  upon  it,  great  and  marvel- 
lous are  the  things  they  see,  Avho  make  profession  of  the  order 
of  knight-errantry.  Nay,  what  being  is  there  in  this  world, 
who  entering  the  gate  of  this  castle  at  this  moment,  and  seeing 
us  as  we  are  here,  would  suppose  or  imagine  us  to  be  what  we 
are  ?  Who  would  say  that  this  lady  who  is  beside  me  was  the 
great  queen  that  we  all  know  her  to  be,  or  that  I  am  that 
Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance,  trumpeted  far  and  wide 
by  the  mouth  of  Fame  ?     Now,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 

'Properly  ma-kan-shy — the  common  emphatic  negative  in  popular 
Arabic,  at  least  in  the  Barbary  States. 


324  DON    QUIXOTE. 

this  art  and  calling  surpasses  all  those  that  mankind  has  in- 
vented, and  is  the  more  deserving  of  being  held  in  honor  in 
proportion  as  it  is  the  more  exposed  to  peril.  Away  with 
those  who  assert  that  letters  have  the  pre-eminence  over  arms ; 
I  will  tell  them,  whosoever  they  may  be,  that  they  know  not 
what  they  say.  For  the  reason  which  such  persons  commonly 
assign,  and  upon  which  they  chiefly  rest,  is,  that  the  labors  of 
the  mind  are  greater  than  those  of  the  body,  and  that  arms 
give  employment  to  the  body  alone ;  as  if  the  calling  were  a 
porter's  trade,  for  which  nothing  more  is  required  than  sturdy 
strength ;  or  as  if,  in  what  we  who  profess  them  call  arms, 
there  were  not  included  acts  of  vigor  for  the  execution  of 
which  high  intelligence  is  requisite ;  or  as  if  the  soul  of  the ' 
warrior,  when  he  has  an  army,  or  the  defence  of  a  city  under 
his  care,  did  not  exert  itself  as  much  by  mind  as  by  body. 
Nay ;  see  whether  by  bodily  strength  it  be  possible  to  learn  or 
divine  the  intentions  of  the  enemy,  his  plans,  stratagems,  or 
obstacles,  or  to  ward  off  impending  mischief ;  for  all  these  are 
the  work  of  the  mind,  and  in  them  the  body  has  no  share 
whatever.  Since,  therefore,  arms  have  need  of  the  mind,  as 
much  as  letters,  let  us  see  now  which  of  the  two  minds,  that 
of  the  man  of  letters  ^  or  that  of  the  warrior,  has  most  to  do ; 
and  this  will  be  seen  by  the  end  and  goal  that  each  seeks  to 
attain  ;  for  that  purpose  is  the  more  estimable  which  has  for 
its  aim  the  nobler  object.  The  end  and  goal  of  letters  —  I  am 
not  speaking  now  of  divine  letters,  the  aim  of  which  is  to 
raise  and  direct  the  soul  to  Heaven ;  for  with  an  end  so  in- 
finite no  other  can  be  compared  —  I  speak  of  human  letters, 
the  end  of  which  is  to  establish  distributive  justice,  give  to 
every  man  that  which  is  his,  and  see  and  take  care  that  good 
laws  are  observed:  an  end  imdoubtedly  noble,  lofty,  and 
deserving  of  high  praise,  but  not  such  as  should  be  given  to 
that  sought  by  arms,  which  have  for  their  end  and  object 
peace,  the  greatest  boon  that  men  can  desire  in  this  life.  The 
first  good  news  the  world  and  mankind  received  Avas  that 
which  the  angels  annoimced  on  the  night  that  was  oiu*  day, 
when  they  sang  in  the  air,  '  Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and 
peace  on  earth  to  men  of  good  will ; '  and  the  salutation  which 
the  great  Master  of  heaven  and  earth  taught  his  disciples  and 
chosen  followers  when  they  entered  any  house,  was  to  say, 

'  "  Man  of  letters  "  —  letrado^  as  will  be  seen,  means  here  specially  one 
devoted  to  jurisprudence. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII.  325 

'  Peace  be  on  this  house ; '  and  many  other  times  he  said  to 
tlieni,  '  My  peace  I  give  unto  you,  my  peace  I  leave  you,  peace 
be  with  you ; '  a  jewel  and  a  precious  gift  given  and  left  by 
such  a  hand :  a  jewel  without  which  there  can  be  no  happiness 
either  on  earth  or  in  heaven.  This  peace  is  the  true  end  of 
war;  and  war  is  only  another  name  for  arms.  This,  then, 
being  admitted,  that  the  end  of  war  is  peace,  and  that  so  far 
it  has  the  advantage  of  the  end  of  letters,  let  us  turn  to  the 
bodily  labors  of  the  man  of  letters,  and  those  of  him  who 
follows  the  profession  of  arms,  and  see  which  are  the 
greater." 

Don  Quixote  delivered  his  discourse  in  such  a  manner  and 
in  such  correct  language,  that  for  the  time  being  he  made  it 
impossible  for  any  of  his  hearers  to  consider  him  a  madman ; 
on  the  contrary,  as  they  were  mostly  gentlemen,  to  whom  arms 
are  an  appurtenance  by  birth,  they  listened  to  him  with  great 
})leasure  as  he  continued :  "  Here,  then,  I  say  is  what  the 
stiulent  has  to  undergo ;  first  of  all  poverty ;  not  that  all  are 
l)oor,  but  to  put  the  case  as  strongly  as  possible :  and  when  I 
have  said  that  he  endures  poverty,  I  think  nothing  more  need 
be  said  al)out  his  hard  fortune,  for  he  who  is  poor  has  no  share 
of  the  good  things  of  life.  This  poverty  he  suffers  from  in 
various  ways,  hunger,  or  cold,  or  nakedness,  or  all  together ; 
but  for  all  that  it  is  not  so  extreme  but  that  he  gets  something 
to  eat,  though  it  may  be  at  somewhat  unseasonable  hours  and 
from  the  leavings  of  the  rich ;  for  the  greatest  misery  of  the 
student  is  what  they  themselves  call  '  going  out  for  soup,'  ^  and 
there  is  always  some  neighbor's  brazier  or  hearth  for  them, 
which,  if  it  does  not  warm,  at  least  tempers  the  cold  to  them, 
and  lastly,  they  sleep  comfortably  at  night  under  a  roof.  I 
will  not  go  into  other  particulars,  as  for  example  want  of 
shirts,  and  no  superabundance  of  shoes,  thin  and  threadbare 
garments,  and  gorging  themselves  to  surfeit  in  their  voracity 
when  good  luck  has  treated  them  to  a  banquet  of  some  sort. 
By  this  road  that  I  have  described,  rough  and  hard,  stumbling 
here,  falling  there,  getting  up  again  to  fail  again,  they  reach 
the  rank  they  desire,  and  that  once  attained,  we  have  seen 
many  who  have  passed  these  Syrtes  and  Scyllas  and  Charyb- 
dises,  as  if  borne  flying  on  the  wings  of  favoring  fortune ;  we 

'  Andar  a  la  sopa —  to  attend  at  the  convents  where  soup  is  given  out 
to  the  poor.  The  convent  soup,  as  Quevedo  says  in  the  Gran  Tacano^ 
was  also  a  great  resource  of  the  picaro  class. 


326  DON    QUIXOTE. 

have  seen  them,  I  say,  ruling  and  governing  the  world  from  a 
chair,  their  hunger  turned  into  satiety,  their  cold  into  comfort, 
their  nakedness  into  fine  raiment,  their  sleep  on  a  mat  into 
repose  in  holland  and  damask,  the  justly  earned  reward  of 
their  virtue ;  but,  contrasted  and  compared  with  what  the 
warrior  undergoes,  all  they  have  undergone  falls  short  of  it, 
as  I  am  now  about  to  show." 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

WHICH     TREATS     OF     THE     CURIOUS     DISCOURSE     DON     QUIXOTE 
DELIVERED    ON    ARMS    AND    LETTERS. 

Continuing  his  discourse  Don  Quixote  said :  ''  As  we  began 
in  the  student's  case  with  poverty  and  its  accompaniments,  let 
us  see  now  if  the  soldier  is  richer,  and  we  shall  find  that  in 
poverty  itself  there  is  no  one  poorer  ;  for  he  is  dependent  on 
his  miserable  pay,  which  comes  late  or  never,  or  else  on  what 
he  can  plunder,  seriously  imperilling  his  life  and  conscience  ; 
and  sometimes  his  nakedness  will  be  so  great  that  a  slashed 
doublet  serves  him  for  uniform  and  shirt,  and  in  the  depth  of 
winter  he  has  to  defend  himself  against  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather  in  the  open  field  with  nothing  better  than  the  breath 
of  his  mouth,  which  I  need  not  say,  coming  from  an  empty 
place,  must  come  out  cold,  contrary  to  the  laws  of  nature.  To 
be  sure  he  looks  forward  to  the  approach  of  night  to  make  up 
for  all  these  discomforts  on  the  bed  that  awaits  him,  Avliich, 
unless  by  some  fault  of  his,  never  sins  by  being  over  narrow, 
for  he  can  easily  measure  out  on  the  ground  as  many  feet  as  he 
likes,  and  roll  himself  about  in  it  to  his  heart's  content  without 
any  fear  of  the  sheets  slipping  away  from  him.  Then,  after 
all  this,  suppose  the  day  and  hour  for  taking  his  degree  in  his 
calling  to  have  come  ;  suppose  the  day  of  battle  to  have  ar- 
rived, when  they  invest  him  with  the  doctor's  cap  made  of  lint, 
to  mend  some  bullet-hole,  perhaps,  that  has  gone  through  his 
temples,  or  left  him  with  a  crippled  arm  or  leg.  Or  if  this 
does  not  happen,  and  merciful  Heaven  watches  over  him  and 
keeps  him  safe  and  sound,  it  may  be  he  will  be  in  the  same 
poverty  he  was  in  before,  and  he  must  go  through  more  en- 
gagements and  more  battles,  and  come  victorious  out  of  all 


CHAPTER    XXXV II I.  327 

before  he  betters  himself ;  but  miracles  of  that  sort  are  seldom 
seen.  For  tell  me,  sirs,  if  you  have  ever  reflected  upon  it,  by 
how  much  do  those  who  have  gained  by  war  fall  short  of  the 
number  of  those  who  have  perished  in  it  ?  No  doubt  you  will 
reply  that  there  can  be  no  .comparison,  that  the  dead  can  not 
be  nimibered,  while  the  living  who  have  Ijeen  rewarded  may  be 
summed  up  witli  three  figures.^  All  which  is  the  reverse  in 
the  case  of  men  of  letters ;  for  by  skirts,  to  say  nothing  of 
sleeves,'^  they  all  find  means  of  support ;  so  that  though  the 
soldier  has  more  to  endure,  his  reward  is  much  less.  But 
against  all  this  it  may  be  urged  that  it  is  easier  to  reward  two 
thousand  men  of  letters  than  thirty  thousand  soldiers,  for  the 
former  nuiy  be  remunerated  by  giving  them  jilaces,  which  must 
perforce  be  conferred  upon  men  of  their  calling,  while  the  lat- 
ter can  only  be  recompensed  out  of  the  ver}^  pro[jerty  of  the 
master  they  serve  ;  but  this  impossibility  only  strengthens  my 
argument. 

"  Putting  this,  however,  aside,  for  it  is  a  puzzling  question 
for  which  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  solution,  let  us  return  to  the 
superiority  of  arms  over  letters,  a  matter  still  undecided,  so 
many  are  the  arguments  put  forward  on  each  side ;  for  l^esides 
those  I  have  mentioned,  letters  say  that  without  them  arms 
can  not  maintain  themselves,  for  war,  too,  has  its  laws  and  is 
governed  by  them,  and  laws  belong  to  the  domain  of  letters 
and  men  of  letters.  To  this  arms  make  ansAver  that  without 
them  laws  can  not  be  maintained,  for  by  arms  states  are  de- 
fended, kingdoms  preserved,  cities  protected,  roads  made  safe, 
seas  cleared  of  pirates ;  and,  in  short,  if  it  were  not  for  them, 
states,  kingdoms,  monarchies,  cities,  ways  by  sea  and  land 
would  be  exposed  to  the  violence  and  confusion  which  war 
brings  with  it,  so  long  as  it  lasts  and  is  free  to  make  use  of  its 
privileges  and  powers.  And  then  it  is  plain  that  whatever 
costs  most  is  valued  and  deserves  to  be  valued  most.  To 
attain  to  eminence  in  letters  costs  a  man  time,  watching, 
hunger,  nakedness,  headaches,  indigestions,  and  other  things 
of  the  sort,  some  of  which  I  have  already  referred  to.  But 
for  a  man  to  come  in  the  ordinary  course  of  things  to  be  a 
good  soldier  costs  him  all  the  student  suffers,  and  in  an  in- 
comparably higher  degree,  for  at  every  step  he  runs  the  risk 

M.e.  fall  short  of  1,000. 

*  Clemencin  explains  this  as  "in  one  way  or  another."  Another  ex- 
planation is  that  by  skirts  (faldas)  regular  salary  is  meant,  and  by  sleeves 
(jnangas)  douceurs,  perquisites,  and  the  like. 


328  DON    QUIXOTE. 

of  losing  his  life.  For  what  dread  of  want  or  poverty  that 
can  reach  or  harass  the  student  can  compare  with  what  the 
soldier  feels,  who  finds  himself  beleagnered  in  some  stronghold 
monnting  gnard  in  some  ravelin  or  cavalier,  knows  that  the 
enemy  is  pushing  a  mine  towards .  the  post  where  he  is  sta- 
tioned, and  can  not  under  any  circumstances  retire  or  fly  from 
the  imminent  danger  that  threatens  him  ?  All  he  can  do  is 
to  inform  his  captain  of  what  is  going  on  so  that  he  may  try 
to  remedy  it  by  a  counter-mine,  and  then  stand  his  ground  in 
fear  and  expectation  of  the  moment  when  he  will  fly  up  to  the 
clouds  without  Avings  and  descend  into  the  deep  against  his 
will.  And  if  this  seems  a  trifling  risk,  let  us  see  whether  it  is 
equalled  or  surpassed  by  the  encounter  of  two  galleys  stem  to 
stem,  in  the  midst  of  the  open  sea,  locked  and  entangled  one 
with  the  other,  when  the  soldier  has  no  more  standing  room 
than  two  feet  of  the  plank  of  the  spur ;  and  yet,  though  he 
sees  before  him  threatening  him  as  many  ministers  of  death  as 
there  are  cannon  of  the  foe  pointed  at  him,  not  a  lance  length 
from  his  body,  and  sees  too  that  Avith  the  first  heedless  step  he 
will  go  down  to  visit  the  profundities  of  Neptune's  bosom,  still 
Avith  dauntless  heart,  urged  on  by  honor  that  nerves  him,  he 
makes  himself  a  target  for  all  that  musketry,  and  struggles  to 
cross  that  narrow  path  to  the  enemy's  ship.  And  what  is  still 
more  marvellous,  no  sooner  has  one  gone  down  into  the  depths 
he  will  never  rise  from  till  the  end  of  the  world,  than  another 
takes  his  place  ;  and  if  he  too  falls  into  the  sea  that  Avaits  for 
him  like  an  enemy,  another  and  another  will  succeed  him  Avith- 
out  a  jnoment's  pause  betAveen  their  deaths :  courage  and 
daring  the  greatest  that  all  the  chances  of  Avar  can  show.^ 
ifa})py  the  blest  ages  that  knew  not  the  dread  fury  of  those 
devilish  engines  of  artillery,  Avhose  inventor  I  am  persuaded  is 
in  hell  receiving  the  reward  of  his  diabolical  iuA^ention,  by 
Avhich  he  made  it  easy  for  a  base  and  coAvardly  arm  to  take  the 
life  of  a  gallant  gentleman  ;  and  that,  A\dien  he  knoAVS  not  hoAV 
or  Avhence,  in  the  height  of  the  ardor  and  enthusiasm  that 
fire  and  animate  braA'^e  hearts,  there  should  come  some  random 
bullet,  discharged  perhaps  by  one  Av^ho  fled  in  terror  at  the 
flash  Avhen  he  fired  off  his  accursed  machine,  w^hich  in  an 
instant  puts  an  end  to  the  projects  and  cuts  off  the  life  of  one 
Avho  deserves  to  Wyq  for   ages   to  come.     And   thus    when  I 

'  Wi'  have  here,  no  (h)uht,  a  personal  reminiscence  of  Lepanto.    It  was  in 
ail  affair  sonu'what  of  this  sort  that  Cervantes  himself  received  bis  woiinds. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII.  329 

reflect  on  this,  I  am  almost  tempted  to  say  that  in  my  heart  I 
repent  of  having  adopted  this  profession  of  knight-errant  in  so 
detestable  an  age  as  we  live  in  now  ;  for  though  no  peril  can 
make  me  fear,  still  it  gives  me  some  uneasiness  to  think  that 
powder  and  lead  may  rob  me  of  the  opportunity  of  making 
myself  famous  and  renowned  throughout  the  known  earth  by 
the  might  of  my  arm  and  the  edge  of  my  sword.  But  Heaven's 
will  be  done  ;  if  I  succeed  in  my  attempt  I  shall  be  all  the 
more  honored,  as  I  have  faced  greater  dangers  than  the 
knights-errant  of  yore  exposed  themselves  to." 

All  this  lengthy  discourse  Don  Quixote  delivered  while  the 
others  supped,  forgetting  to  raise  a  morsel  to  his  lips,  though 
Sancho  more  than  once  told  him  to  eat  his  supper,  as  he  would 
have  time  enough  afterwards  to  say  all  he  wanted.  It  excited 
fresh  pity  in  those  who  had  heard  him  to  see  a  man  of  appar- 
ently sound  sense,  and  with  rational  views  on  every  subject  he 
discussed,  so  hopelessly  Avanting  in  all,  when  his  wretched  un- 
lucky chivalry  was  in  question.  The  curate  told  him  he  was 
quite  right  in  all  he  had  said  in  favor  of  arms,  and  that  he 
himself,  though  a  man  of  letters  and  a  graduate,  was  of  the  same 
opinion. 

They  finished  their  supper,  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  while 
the  hostess,  her  daughter,  and  Maritonies  were  getting  Don 
Qiiixote  of  La  Mancha's  garret  ready,  in  which  it  was  arranged 
that  the  women  were  to  be  quartered  by  themselves  for  the 
night,  Don  Fernando  begged  the  captive  to  tell  them  the  story 
of  his  life,  for  it  could  not  fail  to  be  strange  and  interesting,  to 
judge  by  the  hints  he  had  let  fall  on  his  arrival  in  company 
with  Zoraida.  To  this  the  captive  replied  that  he  would  very 
willingly  yield  to  his  request,  only  he  feared  his  tale  would  not 
give  them  as  much  pleasure  as  he  wished ;  nevertheless,  not  to 
be  wanting  in  compliance,  he  would  tell  it.  The  curate  and 
the  others  thanked  him  and  added  their  entreaties,  and  he 
finding  himself  so  pressed  said  there  was  no  occasion  to  ask, 
where  a  command  had  such  weight,  and  added,  '•'  If  your  wor- 
ships will  give  me  your  attention  you  will  hear  a  true  story 
which,  perhaps,  fictitious  ones  constructed  with  ingenious  and 
studied  art  can  not  come  up  to.  "  '  These  words  made  them  set- 
tle themselves  in  their  places  and  preserve  a  deep  silence,  and 
he  seeing  them  waiting  on  his  words  in  mute  expectation, 
began  thus  in  a  pleasant  quiet  voice. 


330  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 


WHEREIN    THE    CAPTIVE    RELATES    HIS    LIFE    AND    ADVENTURES. 

My  family  had  its  origin  in  a  village  in  the  mountains  of  Leon,' 
and  nature  had  been  kinder  and  more  generous  to  it  than  fortune ; 
though  in  the  general  poverty  of  those  communities  my  father  passed 
for  being  even  a  rich  man  ;  and  he  would  have  been  so  in  reality  had 
he  been  as  clever  in  preserving  his  property  as  he  was  in  spending 
it.  This  tendency  of  his  to  be  liberal  and  profuse  he  had  acquired 
from  having  been  a  soldier  in  his  youth,  for  the  soldier's  life  is  a 
school  in  which  the  niggard  becomes  free-handed,  and  the  free- 
handed prodigal ;  and  if  any  soldiers  are  to  be  found  who  are  misers, 
they  are  monsters  of  rare  occurrence.  My  father  went  beyond  liber- 
ality and  bordered  on  prodigality,  a  disposition  b}^  no  means  advan- 
tageous to  a  married  man  who  has  children  to  succeed  to  his  name 
and  i^osition.  My  father  had  three,  all  sons,  and  all  of  sufficient  age 
to  make  choice  of  a  profession.  Finding,  then,  that  he  was  unable 
to  resist  his  propensity,  he  resolved  to  divest  himself  of  the  instru- 
ment and  cause  of  his  prodigality  and  lavishness,  to  divest  himself 
of  wealth,  without  which  Alexander  himself  would  have  seemed 
parsimonious ;  and  so  calling  us  all  three  aside  one  day  into  a  room, 
he  addressed  us  in  words  somewhat  to  the  following  eifect : 

"  My  sons,  to  assui'e  you  that  I  love  you,  no  more  need  be  known 
or  said  than  that  you  are  my  sons ;  and  to  encourage  a  suspicion  that 
I  do  not  love  you,  no  more  is  needed  than  the  knowledge  that  I  have 
no  self-control  as  far  as  preservation  of  3'our  patiimony  is  concerned ; 
therefore,  that  you  may  for  the  future  feel  sure  that  I  love  j'ou  like  a 
father,  and  liave  uo  wish  to  ruin  you  like  a  stepfather,  I  propose  to 
do  with  you  what  I  have  for  some  time  back  meditated,  and  after 
mature  deliberation  decided  upon.  You  are  now  of  an  age  to  choose 
your  line  of  life  or  at  least  make  choice  of  a  calling  that  will  bring 
you  honor  and  profit  when  you  are  older ;  and  what  I  have  i-esolved 
to  do  is  to  divide  my  property  into  four  parts ;  thi'ee  I  will  give  to 
you,  to  each  his  portion  without  making  any  difterence,and  the  other 
I  will  retain  to  live  upon  and  support  myself  for  whatever  remainder 
of  life  Heaven  may  be  pleased  to  grant  me.  But  1  wish  each  of  you 
on  taking  possession  of  the  share  that  falls  to  him  to  follow  one  of 
the  paths  1  shall  indicate.  In  this  Spain  of  ours  there  is  a  proverb, 
to  my  mind  very  true  —  as  they  all  are,  being  short  aphorisms  drawn 
from  long  practical  experience  —  and  the  one  I  refer  to  says,  '  The 
church,  or  the  sea,  or  the  king's  house ; '  ^  as  much  as  to  say,  in 
plaifter  language,  whoever  wants  to  flourish  and  become  rich,  let 

' "  Montanas  de  Burgos "  and  "  Montanas  de  Leon "  were  the  names 
given  to  the  southern  slopes  of  the  western  continuation  of  the  Pyrenees, 
the  cradle  of  most  of  the  old  Gothic  families  of  Spain,  that  of  Cervantes 
himself  among  the  number. 

2Prov.  121. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX.  331 

him  follow  the  church,  or  go  to  sea,  adopting  commerce  as  his  call- 
ing, or  go  into  the  king's  service  in  his  household,  for  they  say, 
'  Better  a  king's  crumb  than  a  lord's  favor.'  '  I  say  so  because  it  is 
my  will  and  pleasure  that  one  of  you  should  follow  letters,  another 
trade,  and  the  third  serve  the  king  in  the  wars,  for  it  is  a  difficult 
matter  to  gain  admission  to  his  service  in  liis  household,  and  if  war 
does  not  bring  much  wealth  it  confers  great  distinction  and  fame. 
Eight  days  hence  I  will  give  you  your  full  shares  in  money,  without 
defrauding  you  of  a  farthing,  as  you  will  see  in  the  end.  Now  tell 
me  if  you  are  willing  to  follow  out  my  idea  and  advice  as  I  have  laid 
it  before  you." 

Having  called  upon  me  as  the  eldest  to  answer,  I,  after  ui'ginghim 
not  to  strip  himself  of  his  property  but  to  spend  it  all  as  he  pleased, 
for  we  were  young  men  able  to  g;un  our  living,  consented  to  comply 
with  his  wishes,  and  said  that  mine  were  to  follow  the  profession  of 
arms  and  thereby  serve  God  and  my  king.  My  second  In-other  hav- 
ing made  the  same  proposal,  decided  upon  going  to  the  Indies, 
embarking  the  portion  that  fell  to  him  in  trade.  The  youngest,  and 
in  my  opinion  the  wisest,  said  he  would  rather  follow  the  church,  or 
go  to  complete  his  studies  at  Salamanca.  As  soon  as  we  had  come 
to  an  understanding,  and  made  choice  of  our  professions,  my  father 
emln-aced  us  all,  and  in  the  short  time  he  mentioned  cari-ied  into 
effect  all  he  had  promised ;  and  when  he  had  given  to  each  his  share, 
which  as  well  as  I  remember  was  three  thousand  ducats  apiece  in 
cash  (for  an  uncle  of  ours  bought  the  estate  and  paid  for  it  down, 
not  to  let  it  go  out  of  the  family),  we  all  three  on  the  same  day  took 
leave  of  our  good  father;  and  at  the  same  time,  as  it  seemed  to  me 
inhuman  to  leave  my  father  with  such  scanty  means  in  his  old  age, 
I  induced  him  to  take  two  of  my  three  thousand  ducats,  as  the 
remainder  would  be  enough  to  provide  me  with  all  a  soldier  needed. 
My  two  brothers,  moved  by  my  example,  gave  him  each  a  thousand 
ducats,  so  that  there  was  left  for  my  father  four  thousand  ducats 
in  money,  besides  three  thousand,  the  value  of  the  portion  that  fell 
to  him  which  he  jireferred  to  retain  in  land  instead  of  selling  it. 
Finally,  as  I  said,  we  took  leave  of  him,  and  of  our  uncle  whom  I 
have  mentioned,  not  without  sorrow  and  tears  on  both  sides,  they 
charging  us  to  let  them  know  whenever  an  opportunity  offered  how 
we  fared,  whether  well  or  ill.  We  promised  to  do  so,  and  when  he 
had  embraced  us  and  given  us  his  blessing,  one  set  out  for  Salamanca, 
the  other  for  Seville,  and  I  for  Alicante,  where  I  had  heard  there  was 
a  Genoese  vessel  taking  in  a  cargo  of  wool  for  Genoa. 

It  is  now  some  twenty-two  years  since  I  left  my  father's  house, 
and  all  that  time,  though  I  have  written  several  letters,  I  have  had 
no  news  whatever  of  him  or  of  my  brothers ;  my  own  adventures 
during  that  period  I  will  now  relate  briefly.  I  embarked  at  Alicante, 
reached  Genoa  after  a  prospei'ous  voyage,  and  proceeded  thence  to 
Milan,  whei-e  I  provided  myself  with  arms  and  a  few  soldier's 
accoutrements ;  then  it  was  my  intention  to  go  and  take  service  in 
Piedmont,  but  as  I  was  already  on  the  road  to  Alessandria  della 

'  Trov.  202. 


332  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Paglia,  I  learned  that  the  great  Duke  of  Alva  was  on  his  way  to 
Flanders.'  1  changed  my  plans,  joined  him,  served  under  him  in 
the  campaigns  he  madi^  was  present  at  the  deaths  of  the  Counts 
Egmont  and  Horn,  and  was  promoted  to  be  ensign  under  a  famous 
captain  of  Guadalajara,  Diego  de  Urbina  by  name.^  Some  time  after 
my  arrival  in  Flanders  news  came  of  the  league  that  his  Holiness 
Pope  Pius  V.  of  happy  memory  had  made  with  Venice  and  Spain 
against  the  common  enemy,  the  Turk,  who  had  just  then  with  his 
fleet  taken  the  famous  island  of  C'y|jrus,  which  belonged  to  the 
Venetians,  a  loss  deplorable  and  disastrous.  It  was  known  as  a  fact 
that  the  Most  Serene  Don  John  of  Austria,  natural  brother  of  our 
good  king  Don  Philip,  was  coming  as  commander-in-chief  of  the 
allied  forces,  and  rumors  were  abroad  of  the  vast  warlike  prepai'a- 
tions  which  were  being  made,  all  which  stirred  my  heart  and  tilleil 
me  with  a  longing  to  take  part  in  the  camjiaign  which  was  expected  ; 
and  though  I  had  reason  to  believe,  and  most  certain  promises,  that 
on  the  first  opportunity  that  presented  itself  I  should  be  promoted 
to  be  captain,  1  preferred  to  leave  all  and  betake  myself,  as  I  did, 
to  Italy  ;  and  it  w^as  my  good  fortune  that  Don  John  had  just  arrived 
at  Genoa,  and  was  going  on  to  Naples  to  join  the  Venetian  fleet,  as 
he  afterwards  did  at  Messina.  I  may  say,  in  short,  that  I  took  part 
in  that  glorious  expedition,  promoted  by  this  time  to  be  a  captain  of 
infantry,  to  which  honorable  chai'ge  my  good  luck  rather  than  my 
merits  raised  me;  and  that  day — so  fortunate  for  Christendom,  be- 
cause then  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  were  disabused  of  the  error 
under  which  they  lay  in  imagining  the  Turks  to  be  invincible  on  sea 
—  on  that  day,  I  say,  on  which  the  Ottoman  pride  and  arrogance  were 
broken,  among  all  that  were  there  made  happy  (for  the  Christians 
who  died  that  day  were  happier  than  those  who  remained  alive  and 
victorious)  I  alone  was  miserable;  for,  instead  of  some  naval  crown 
that  I  might  have  expected  had  it  been  in  Roman  times,  on  the  night 
that  followed  that  famous  day  I  found  myself  with  fetters  on  my 
feet  and  manacles  on  my  hands. 

It  liappened  in  this  way :  El  Uchali,^  the  King  of  Algiers,  a  daring 
and  successful  corsair,  having  attacked  and  taken  the  leading  Mal- 
tese galley  (only  three  knights  being  left  alive  in  it,  and  they  badly 
wounded),  the  chief  galley  of  ffohn  Andrea,"  on  board  of  which  I 
and  my  company  were  placed,  came  to  its  relief,  and  doing  as  I  was 
bound  to  do  in  such  a  case,  I  leaped  on  board  the  enemy's  galley, 
which,  sheering  off  fi-om  that  which  had  attacked  it.  prevented  my 
men  from  following  me,  and  so  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  midst  of 
my  enemies,  wiio  were  in  such  numbers  that  I  was  unable  to  resist; 
in  short  I  was  taken,  covered  with  wounds  ;  El  Uchali,  as  you  know, 
sirs,  made  his  escape  with  his  entire  squadron,  and  I  was  left  a  pris- 

'  Alva  went  to  Fhmders  in  1567,  so  that  the  present  scene  would  be 
laid  in  1589 ;  but  Cervantes  paid  no  attention  to  chronology. 

-  This  was  the  captain  of  the  company  in  Diego  de  Moncada's  regiment 
ill  which  Cervantes  lirst  served. 

^  Properly  — Alu(;h  Ali. 

*  John  Andrea  Duria,  nephew  of  the  great  Andrea  Doria. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX.  333 

oner  in  his  power,  the  only  sad  being  among  so  many  filled  with  joy, 
and  the  only  captive  among  so  many  free ;  for  there  were  lifteen 
thousand  Christians,  all  at  the  oar  in  the  Turkish  fleet,  that  regained 
their  longed-for  liberty  that  day. 

They  carried  me  to  Constantinople,  where  the  Grand  Turk,  Selim, 
made  my  master  general  at  sea  for  having  done  his  duty  in  the  bat- 
tle and  carri(!d  otf  as  evidence  of  his  bravery  the  standard  of  the 
Order  of  Malta.  The  following  year,  which  was  the  year  seventy- 
two,  I  found  myself  at  Navarino  rowing  in  the  leading  gaHey  with  the 
three  lanterns.'  There  I  saw  and  observed  how  the  opportunity  of 
capturing  the  whole  Turkish  fleet  in  harbor  was  lost;  for  all  the 
marines  and  janizzaries  that  belonged  to  it  made  sure  that  they  were 
about  to  be  attacked  inside  the  very  harbor,  and  had  their  kits  and 
pasamaques,  or  shoes,  ready  to  flee  at  once  on  shore  without  waiting 
to  be  assailed,  in  so  great  fear  did  they  stand  of  our  fleet.  But 
Heaven  ordered  it  otherwise,  not  for  any  fault  or  neglect  of  the  gen- 
eral who  commanded  on  our  side,  but  for  the  sins  of  Christendom, 
and  because  it  was  God's  will  and  pleasure  that  we  should  always 
have  instruments  of  punishment  to  chastise  us.  As  it  was,  El  Uchali 
took  refuge  at  Modon,  which  is  an  island  near  Navarino,  and  landing 
his  forces  fortified  the  mouth  of  the  harbor  and  waited  quietl}'  until 
Don  John  retired.  On  this  expedition  was  taken  the  galleycalled 
the  Prize,  whose  captain  was  a  son  of  the  famous  corsair  Barbarossa. 
It  was  taken  by  the  chief  Neapolitan  galley  called  the  She- wolf,  com- 
manded by  that  thunderbolt  of  war,  that  father  of  his  men,  that  suc- 
cessful and  unconquered  captain  Don  Alvaro  de  Bazan,  Marquis  of 
Santa  Cruz ;  and  I  cannot  help  telling  you  what  look  place  at  the 
capture  of  the  Prize. 

The  son  of  Barbarossa  was  so  cruel,  and  treated  his  slaves  so 
badly,  that,  when  those  who  were  at  the  oars  saw  that  the  She-wolf 
galley  was  bearing  down  upon  them  and  gaining  upon  them,  they 
all  at  once  dropped  their  oars  and  seized  their  captain  who  stood  on 
the  stage  at  the  end  of  the  gangway  shouting  to  them  to  row  lustily ; 
and  passing  him  on  from  bench  to  bench,  from  the  poop  to  the  prow, 
they  so  bit  him  that  before  he  had  got  much  past  the  mast  his  soul 
had  already  got  to  hell ;  so  great,  as  I  said,  Avas  the  cruelty  with 
which  he  treated  them,  and  the  hatred  with  which  they  hated  him. 

We  returned  to  Constantinople,  and  the  following  year,  seventy- 
three,  it  be(!arae  known  that  Don  John  had  seized  Tunis  and  taken 
the  kingdom  from  the  Turks,  and  placed  Muley  Ilamet  in  possession, 
jjutting  an  end  to  the  hopes  which  INIuley  Hamida,  the  crudest  and 
bravest  Moor  in  the  world,  entertained  of  returning  to  reign  there. 
The  Grand  Turk  took  the  loss  greatly  to  heart,  and  with  the  cunning 
which  all  his  race  possess,  he  made  peace  with  the  Venetians  (who 
were  much  more  eager  for  it  than  he  was),  and  the  following  year, 
seventy-four,  he  attacked  the  Goletta,'-*  and  the  fort  which  Don  ,fohn 
had  left  half  built  near  Tunis.     While  all  these  events  were  occur- 

'  The  distinguishing  mark  of  the  admiral's  galley. 

^  The  fort  commanding  the  entrance,  the  "  gullet,"  to  the  lagoon  of 
Tunis. 


334  DON    QUIXOTE. 

ring,  I  was  laboring  at  the  oar  without  any  hope  of  freedom  ;  at  least 
1  had  no  hope  of  obtaining  it  by  ransom,  for  I  was  firmly  resolved 
not  to  write  to  ray  father  telling  him  of  my  misfortunes.  At  length 
the  Goletta  fell,  and  the  fort  fell,  before  which  places  there  were 
seventy-five  thousand  regular  Turkish  soldiers,  and  more  than  four 
hundred  thousand  Moors  and  Arabs  from  all  parts  of  Africa,  and  in 
the  train  of  all  this  great  host  such  munitions  and  engines  of  war, 
and  so  many  pioneers  that  with  their  hand  they  might  liave  covered 
the  Goletta  and  the  fort  with  handfuls  of  earth.  The  first  to  fall  was 
the  Goletta,  until  then  reckoned  imi^regnable,  and  it  fell,  not  by  any 
fault  of  its  defenders,  who  did  all  that  they  could  and  should  have 
done,  but  because  experiment  proved  how  easily  intrenchments  could 
be  made  in  the  desert  sand  there ;  for  water  used  to  be  found  at  two 
jjalms  depth,  wliile  the  Turks  found  none  at  two  yards ;  and  so  by 
means  of  a  quantity  of  sandbags  they  raised  theii*  works  so  high  that 
they  commanded  the  walls  of  the  fort,  sweeping  them  as  if  from  a 
cavalier,  so  that  no  one  was  able  to  make  a  stand  or  maintain  tlie 
defence. 

It  was  a  common  opinion  that  our  men  should  not  have  shut  them- 
selves up  in  the  Goletta,  but  should  have  waited  in  the  open  at  the 
landing-place;  but  those  who  say  so  talk  at  random  and  with  little 
knowledge  of  such  matters  ;  for  if  in  the  Goletta  and  in  the  fort  there 
were  barely  seven  thousand  soldiers,  how  could  such  a  small  number, 
however  resolute,  sally  out  and  hold  their  own  against  numbers  like 
those  of  the  enemy  ?  And  how  is  it  possible  to  help  losing  a  strong- 
hold that  is  not  relieved,  above  all  when  surrounded  by  a  host  of 
determined  enemies  in  their  own  country  ?  But  many  thought,  and 
I  thought  so  too,  that  it  was  a  special  favor  and  mercy  which  Heaven 
showed  to  Spain  in  pei-mitting  the  destruction  of  that  source  and 
hiding-place  of  mischief,  that  devourer,  sponge,  and  moth  of  count- 
less money,  fruitlessly  wasted  there  to  no  other  purpose  save  pre- 
serving the  memory  of  its  capture  by  the  invincible  Charles  V. ;  as 
if  to  make  that  eternal,  as  it  is  and  will  be,  these  stones  were  needed 
to  support  it.  The  fort  also  fell ;  but  the  Turks  had  to  win  it  inch 
by  inch,  for  the  soldiers  who  defended  it  fought  so  gallantly  and 
stoutly  that  the  number  of  the  enemy  killed  in  twenty-two  genei'al 
assaults  exceeded  twenty-five  thousand.  Of  three  hundred  that  re- 
mained alive  not  one  was  taken  unwounded,  a  clear  and  manifest 
proof  of  their  gallantry  and  resolution,  and  how  sturdily  they  had 
defended  themselves  and  held  their  post.  A  small  fort  or  tower 
which  was  in  the  middle  of  the  lagoon  under  the  command  of  Don 
Juan  Zanoguera,  a  Valencian  gentleman  and  a  famous  soldicn-,  ca- 
pitulated upon  terms.  They  took  prisoner  Don  Pedro  Puertocarrero. 
commandant  of  the  Goletta,  who  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  defend 
his  fortress,  and  took  the  loss  of  it  so  much  to  heart  that  he  died  of 
grief  on  the  way  to  Constantinople,  where  they  were  carrying  him  a 
prisoner.  They  also  took  the  commandant  of  the  foi't,  Gabrio  Cer- 
bellon  '  by  name,  a  Milanese  gentleman,  a  great  engineer  and  a  very 
brave   soldier.     Tn   these  two  fortresses  perished  many  persons  of 

'  Or  Serbelloni. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX.  335 

note,  amonoj  whom  was  Pagano  Doria,  knight  of  the  Order  of  St. 
John,  a  man  of  generous  disposition,  as  was  shown  by  liis  extreme 
liberality  to  his  brother,  the  famous  John  Andrea  Doria;  and  what 
made  his  death  the  more  sad  was  that  he  was  slain  by  some  Arabs 
to  whom,  seeing  that  tiie  tort  was  now  lost,  he  intrusted  himself,  and 
who  otfered  to  e(mduet  him  in  the  tlisguise  of  a  ^loor  to  'J'abarca,  a 
small  fort  or  station  on  the  coast  hekl  by  the  Genoese  emph:)yed  in 
the  coral  tishery.  These  Arabs  cut  off  his  head  and  carried  it  to  the 
commander  of  the  Turkisli  fleet,  who  proved  on  them  the  truth  of 
our  Castilian  proverb,  tliat  "  though  the  treason  may  jjlease,  tiie 
traitor  is  hated ; " '  for  they  say  he  ordered  tliose  who  brought  him 
the  present  to  be  hanged  for  not  having  brought  him  alive. 

Among  the  Ciiristians  who  were  taken  in  the  fort  was  one  named 
Don  Pedro  de  Aguilar,  a  native  of  some  place,  T  know  not  what,  in 
Andalusia,  who  had  been  ensign  in  the  fort,  a  soldier  of  great  repute 
and  rare  intelligence,  who  had  in  pai'ticular  a  special  gift  for  what 
they  call  poetry.  I  say  so  because  his  fate  bi'ouglit  him  to  my  galley 
and  to  my  bench,  and  made  him  a  slave  to  the  same  master ;  and 
before  we  left  the  port  this  gentleman  composed  two  sonnets  by  way 
of  epitajDhs,  one  on  the  (Joletta  and  the  other  on  the  fort;  indeed,  I 
may  as  well  repeat  them,  for  I  have  them  by  heart,  and  I  think  they 
will  be  liked  rather  than  disliked. 

The  instant  the  captain  mentioned  the  name  of  Don  Pedro 
de  Aguilar,  Don  Fernando  looked  at  his  companion,s  and  they 
all  three  smiled ;  and  when  he  came  to  speak  of  the  sonnets 
one  of  them  said,  "  Before  your  worship  proceeds  any  further 
I  entreat  you  to  tell  me  what  became  of  that  Don  Pedro  de 
Aguilar  you  have  spoken  of." 

"All  I  know  is,"  replied  the  captive,  ''that  after  having 
been  in  Constantinople  two  years,  he  escaped  in  the  disguise 
of  an  Arnaut,  in  company  with  a  Greek  spy ;  but  whether  he 
regained  his  liberty  or  not  I  cannot  tell,  though  I  fancy  he 
did,  because  a  year  afterwards  I  saw  the  Greek  at  Constanti- 
nople, though  I  was  unable  to  ask  him  what  the  result  of  the 
jou.rney  was." 

"  Well  then,  you  are  right,"  returned  the  gentleman,  "  for 
that  Don  Pedro  is  my  brother,  and  he  is  now  in  our  village  in 
good  health,  rich,  married,  and  with  three  children.'' - 

"Thanks  be  to  God  for  all  the  mercies  he  has  shown  him," 
said  the  captive ;  "  for  to  my  mind  there  is  no  happiness  on 
earth  to  compare  with  recovering  lost  liberty." 

'  Prov.  230. 

^  The  memories  of  this  Don  Pedro  de  Aguihir  were  printed  in  1755  by 
the  Sociedad  de  Bibliofilos  Espaiioles. 


33(5  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"And  what  is  more,"  said  the  gentleman,  "I  know  the 
sonnets  my  brotlier  made." 

'<  Then  let  your  worship  repeat  them,"  said  the  captive,  "  for 
you  will  recite  them  better  than  I  can." 

''With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  gentleman;  "that  on  the 
Goletta  runs  thus." 


CHAPTER   XL. 

IN    WHICH    THE    STORY    OF    THE    CAPTIVE    IS    CONTINUED. 

SONNET.^ 

"  Blest  souls,  that,  from  this  mortal  husk  set  free, 

In  guerdon  of  brave  deeds  beatified, 

Above  this  lowly  orb  of  ours  abide 
Made  heirs  of  heaven  and  immortality. 
With  noble  rage 'and  ardor  glowing  ye 

Your  strength,  while  strength  was  yours,  in  battle  plied, 

And  with  your  own  blood  and  the  foeman's  dyed 
The  sandy  soil  and  the  encircling  sea. 
It  was  the  ebbing  life-blood  first  that  failed 
The  weary  arms ;  the  stout  hearts  never  quailed. 

Though  vanquished,  yet  ye  earned  the  victor's  crown  : 
Though  mourned,  yet  still  triumphant  was  your  fall ; 
For  there  ye  won,  between  the  sword  and  wall. 

In  Heaven  glory  and  on  earth  renown." 

"  That  is  it  exactly,  according  to  my  recollection,"  said  the 

captive. 

"  Well  then,  that  on  the  fort,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  if  my 

memory  serves  me,  goes  thus : 

SONNET. 

"  Up  from  this  wasted  soil,  this  shattered  shell. 
Whose  walls  and  towers  here  in  ruin  lie. 
Three  thousand  soldier  souls  took  wing  on  high, 
In  the  bright  mansions  of  the  blest  to  dwell. 

'  Clemencin  says  the  merits  of  this  sonnet  are  slender,  and  that  the 
next  is  no  better.  He  particuhirly  objects  to  the  idea  of  sovls  dyeing  the 
sea  with  their  blood.  But  Clemencin  had  no  bowels  of  compassion  for 
the  straits  of  a  sonneteer. 


CHAPTER    XL.  337 

The  onslaught  of  the  foeman  to  repel 
By  might  of  arm  all  vainly  did  they  try, 
And  when  at  length  't  was  left  them  but  to  die, 

Wearied  and  few  the  last  defenders  fell. 
•  And  this  same  arid  soil  hath  ever  been 

A  haunt  of  countless  mournful  memories, 
As  well  in  our  day  as  in  days  of  yore. 

But  never  yet  to  Heaven  it  sent,  I  ween. 

From  its  hard  bosom  purer  souls  than  these, 
Or  braver  bodies  on  its  surface  bore." 

The  sonnets  were  not  disliked,  and  the  captive  was  rejoiced 
at  the  tidings  they  gave  him  of  his  comrade,  and  continuing 
his  tale,  he  went  on  to  say : 

The  Goletta  and  the  fort  being  thus  in  their  hands,  the  Turks  gave 
orders  to  dismantle  the  Goletta  —  for  the  fort  was  reduced  to  such  a 
state  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  level  —  and  to  do  the  work  more 
quickly  and  easily  they  mined  it  in  three  jjlaces  ;  but  nowhere  were 
they  able  to  blow  up  the  part  which  seemed  to  be  the  least  strong, 
that  is  to  say,  the  old  walls,  while  all  that  remained  standing  of  the 
new  fortifications  that  the  Fratin  '  had  made  came  to  the  ground  with 
the  greatest  ease.  Finally  tlie  fleet  returned  victorious  and  triumph- 
ant to  Constantinople,  and  a  few  months  later  died  my  master.  El 
Uchali,  otherwise  Uchali  Fartax,  which  means  in  Turkish  "the 
scabby  renegade ;  "  for  that  he  was  ;  it  is  the  practice  with  the  Tiu'ks 
to  name  people  from  some  defect  or  virtue  they  may  possess ;  the 
reason  being  that  there  are  among  them  only  four  surnames  belong- 
ing to  families  tracing  their  descent  from  the  Ottoman  house,  and 
the  others,  as  I  have  said,  take  their  names  and  surnames  either  from 
bodily  blemishes  or  moral  qualities.  This  "  scabby  one"  I'owed  at 
the  oar  as  a  slave  of  the  Grand  Signer's  for  fourteen  years,  and 
when  over  thirty-four  years  of  age,  in  resentment  at  having  been 
struck  by  a  Turk  while  at  the  oar,  turned  renegade  and  renounced 
his  faith  in  order  to  be  able  to  revenge  himself ;  and  such  was  his  valor 
that,  without  owing  his  advancement  to  the  base  ways  and  means 
b}^  which  most  favorites  of  the  Grand  Signor  rise  to  power,  he  came 
to  be  king  of  Algiers,  and  afterwards  general-on-sea,  which  is  the 
third  place  of  trust  in  the  realm.  He  was  a  Calabrian  by  birth,  and 
a  worthy  man  morally,  and  he  treated  his  slaves  with  great  humanity. 
He  had  three  thousand  of  them,  and  after  his  death  they  were  divided, 
as  he  directed  by  his  will,  between  the  Grand  Signor  (who  is  heir  of 
all  who  die  and  shares  with  the  children  of  the  deceased)  and  his 
renegades.  I  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  Venetian  renegade;  who,  when  a 
cabin-boy  on  board  a  ship,  had  been  taken  by  Uchali  and  was  so 
much  beloved  by  him  that  he  became  one  of  his  most  favored  youths. 

'  Fratin,  "  the  little  friar,"  the  name  by  which  Jacome  Palearo  went. 
Vol.  I.  —  22 


338  DON    QUIXOTE. 

He  came  to  be  the  most  cruel  renegade  I  ever  saw :  his  name  Avas 
Hassan  Aga/  and  he  grew  very  rich  and  became  Iving  of  Algiers. 
With  him  i  went  theie  Irom  Constantinople,  rather  glad  to  be  so  near 
Spain,  not  that  I  intended  to  write  to  any  one  about  my  unhappy  lot, 
but  to  try  if  fortune  would  be  kinder  to  me  in  Algiers  than  in  Con- 
stantinople, where  1  had  attempted  in  a  thousand  ways  to  escape 
without  ever  finding  a  favorable  time  or  chance ;  but  in  Algiers  I 
resolved  to  seek  for  other  means  of  eftecting  tlie  purpose  I  cherished 
so  dearly;  for  the  hope  of  obtaining  my  liberty  never  deserted  me; 
and  when  in  my  plots  and  schemes  and  attempts  the  result  did  not 
answer  my  expectations,  without  giving  way  to  despair  I  immediately 
began  to  look  out  for  or  conjure  up  some  new  hope  to  support  me, 
however  faint  or  feeble  it  might  be.- 

In  this  way  I  lived  on  immured  in  a  building  or  prison  called  by 
the  Turks  a  bano,^  in  which  they  confine  the  Christian  captives,  as 
well  those  that  are  tlie  king's  as  tliose  belonging  to  private  individu- 
als, and  also  what  they  call  those  of  the  Almacen,  which  is  as  much 
as  to  say  the  slaves  of  the  municipality,  who  serve  the  city  in  the 
public  works  and  other  employments ;  but  captives  of  this  kind 
recover  their  libertj'  with  great  difficulty,  for,  as  they  are  public 
property  and  have  no  particular  master,  there  is  no  one  with  whom 
to  treat  for  tlieir  ransom,  even  though  they  may  have  the  means. 
To  these  baiios,  as  I  have  said,  some  private  individuals  of  the  town 
are  in  the  habit  of  bringing  their  captives,  especially  when  they  are 
to  be  ransomed ;  because  there  they  can  keep  them  in  safety  and 
comfort  until  their  ransom  arrives.  The  king's  captives  also,  that 
are  on  ransom,  do  not  go  out  to  work  with  the  rest  of  the  crew, 
unless  when  their  ransom  is  delayed;  for  then,  to  make  theniAvrite 
for  it  more  pressingly,  they  compel  them  to  work  and  go  for  wood, 
which  is  no  light  labor. 

I,  however,  was  one  of  those  on  ransom,  for  when  it  was  dis- 
covered that  1  was  a  captain,  although  I  declared  my  scanty  means 
and  want  of  fortune,  nothing  could  dissuade  them  from  including 
me  among  the  gentlemen  and  those  waiting  to  be  ransomed.  They 
put  a  chain  on  me,  more  as  a  mark  of  this  than  to  keep  me  safe,  and 
so  1  passed  my  life  in  that  baiio  with  several  other  gentlemen  and 
persons  of  quality  marked  out  as  held  to  ransom ;  but  tliough  at 
times,  or  rather  almost  always,  we  sufi"ered  from  hunger  and  scanty 
clothing,  nothing  distressed  us  so  much  as  hearing  and  seeing  at 

'  This  should  be  Hassan  Pacha  :  Hassan  Aga  died  in  1543. 

*  The  story  of  the  captive,  it  is  needless  to  say,  is  not  tlie  story  of  Cer- 
vantes himself ;  but  it  is  colored  throughout  by  bis  own  experiences,  and 
he  himself  speaks  in  the  person  of  the  captive.  In  the  above  passage,  for 
exauiple,  we  have  an  expression  of  the  indomitable  spirit  that  supported 
him,  not  only  in  captivity,  but  in  the  struggles  of  his  later  life. 

^  The  barrack  or  building  in  which  slaves  were  kept.  Littre  explains 
it  hj  saying  that  a  "  bath  "  — •  hagne^  hano  —  was  on  one  occasion  used  as 
a  place  of  confinement  for  Christian  slaves  at  Constantinople.  Conde,  on 
the  other  hand,  says  the  word  has  notlung  to  do  with  bano  —  batli,  but  is 
pure  Arabic,  and  means  a  building  coated  with  plaster  or  stucco. 


CHAPTER    XL.  339 

every  turn  the  unexampled  and  unheard-of  cruelties  my  master  in- 
flicted upon  the  Christians.  Every  day  ho  hanged  a  man,  impaled 
one,  cut  oft'  the  ears  of  another;  and  all  with  so  little  provocation, 
or  so  entirely  without  any,  that  the  Turks  acknowledged  he  did  it 
merely  for  tlie  sake  of  doing  it,  and  because  he  was  by  nature 
murderously  disposed  towards  the  whole  human  race.  The  only 
one  that  fared  at  all  well  with  him  was  a  Spanish  soldier,  something 
de  Saavedra '  by  name,  to  whom  he  never  gave  a  blow  himself,  or 
ordered  a  blow  to  be  given,  or  addressed  a  hard  word,  although  he 
had  done  things  that  will  dwell  in  the  memory  of  the  people  there 
for  many  a  year,  and  all  to  recover  his  liberty  ;  and  for  the  least  of 
the  many  thhigs  he  did  we  all  dreaded  that  he  would  be  impaled, 
and  he  himself  was  in  fear  of  it  more  than  once  ;  and  only  that  time 
does  not  allow,  I  could  tell  you  now  something  of  what  that  soldier 
did,  that  would  interest  and  astonish  you  much  more  than  the  narra- 
tion of  my  own  tale. 

To  go  on  with  my  story ;  the  courtyard  of  our  prison  was  over- 
looked by  the  windows  of  the  house  belonging  to  a  wealth}'  Moor  of 
high  position ;  and  these,  as  is  usual  in  Moorish  houses,  were  rather 
loopholes  than  windows,  and  besides  were  covered  with  thick  and 
close  blinds.  It  so  happened,  then,  that  as  I  was  one  day  on  the 
terrace  of  our  prison  with  three  otlier  comrades,  trying,  to  pass 
&wa.y  the  time,  how  far  we  could  leaj)  with  our  chains,  we  beino- 
alone,  for  all  the  other  Christians  had  gone  out  to  work,  I  chanced 
to  raise  my  eyes,  and  from  one  of  these  little  closed  windows  I  saw 
a  reed  appear  with  a  cloth  attached  to  the  end  of  it,  and  it  kept  wav- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  moving  as  if  making  signs  to  us  to  come  and 
take  it.  We  watched  it,  and  one  of  those  wdio  were  with  me  went 
and  stood  under  the  reed  to  see  whether  they  would  let  it  dro]),  or 
what  they  would  do,  but  as  he  did  so  the  reed  was  raised  and  moved 
from  side  to  side,  as  if  they  meant  to  say  "no"  by  a  shake  of  the 
head.  The  Christian  came  back,  and  it  was  again  lowered,  makino- 
the  same  movements  as  before.  Another  of  my  comrades  went,  and 
with  him  the  same  happened  as  with  the  first,  and  then  the  third 
went  forward,  but  with  the  same  results  as  the  first  and  second. 
Seeing  this  I  did  not  like  not  to  try  my  luck,  and  as  soon  as  I  came 
under  the  reed  it  was  dropped  and  fell  inside  the  bano  at  my  feet. 
I  hastened  to  untie  the  cloth,  in  which  I  perceived  a  knot,  and  in 
this  were  ten  cianis,  which  are  coins  of  base  gold,  current  among  the 
Moors,  and  each  worth  ten  reals  of  our  money. 

It  is  needless  to  say  1  rejoiced  over  this  godsend,  and  my  joj^  was 
not  less  than  my  wonder  as  I  strove  to  imagine  how  this  good  fort- 

'  This  "tal  de  Saavedra"  was  of  course  Cervantes  himself.  The  story 
of  his  captivity  and  adventures  had  been  already  written  by  Ilaedo,  but 
did  not  appear  in  print  till  1012.  Rodrigo  Mendez  Silva  was  so  much 
struck  by  it  that  he  mentions  Cervantes  as  the  most  remarkable  of  the 
descendants  of  Nuiio  Alfonso;  but,  strange  to  say,  though  he  wrote  in 
1648,  he  does  not  seem  to  be  aware  that  he  is  speaking  of  the  author  of 
Don  Quixote.  Perhaps  the  good  Dryasdust  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
book. 


340  DON    QUIXOTE. 

line  could  have  come  to  us,  but  to  me  specially ;  for  the  evident  un- 
willingness to  drop  the  reed  for  any  but  me  showed  that  it  was  for 
me  the  favor  was  intended.  I  took  my  welcome  money,  broke  the 
reed,  and  returned  to  the  terrace,  and  looking  up  at  the  window,  I 
saw  a  very  white  hand  put  out  that  opened  and  shut  very  quickly. 
From  this  we  gathered  or  fancied  that  it  must  be  some  woman  living 
in  that  house  that  had  done  us  this  kindness,  and  to  show  that  we 
were  grateful  for  it,  we  made  salaams  after  the  fashion  of  the  Moors, 
bowing  the  head,  bending  the  body,  and  crossing  the  arms  on  the 
breast.  Shortly  afterwards  at  the  same  window  a  small  cross  made 
of  reeds  was  put  out  and  iuuuediately  withdrawn.  This  sign  led  us 
to  Ijelieve  that  some  Christian  woman  was  a  captive  in  the  house, 
and  that  it  was  she  who  had  been  so  good  to  us ;  but  the  whiteness 
of  the  hand  and  the  bracelets  we  had  perceived  made  us  dismiss  that 
idea,  thoug'h  we  thought  it  mio-ht  be  one  of  the  Christian  renegades 
whom  their  masters  very  often  take  as  lawful  wives,  and  gladly,  for 
they  prefer  them  to  the  women  of  their  own  nation.  In  all  our  con- 
jectures we  AVfere  wide  of  the  truth ;  so  from  that  time  forward  our 
sole  occupation  was  watching  and  gazing  at  the  window  whei'e  the 
cross  had  appeared  to  us,  as  if  it  were  our  pole-star ;  but  at  least 
fifteen  days  passed  without  our  seeing  it  or  the  hand,  or  any  other 
sign  whatever ;  and  though  meanwhile  we  endeavored  with  the  ut- 
most pains  to  ascertain  who  it  was  that  lived  in  the  house,  and  whether 
there  were  any  Christian  renegade  in  it,  nobody  could  ever  tell  us 
anything  more  than  that  he  who  lived  there  was  a  rich  IVIoor  of 
high  position,  Hadji  ]\lorato  by  name,  formerly  alcaide  of  LaPata,' 
an  office  of  high  dignity  among  them.  But  when  we  least  thought 
it  was  going  to  rain  any  more  cianis  from  that  quarter,  we  saw  the 
reed  suddenly  appear  with  another  cloth  tied  in  a  larger  knot  at- 
tached to  it,  and  this  at  a  time  Avhen,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the 
bafio  was  deserted  and  unoccupied. 

We  made  trial  as  before,  each  of  the  same  three  going  forward  be- 
fore T  dill ;  but  the  reed  was  delivered  to  none  but  me,  and  on  my  ap- 
proach it  was  let  drop.  I  untied  the  knot  and  1  found  forty  Spanish 
gold  crowns  with  a  paper  written  in  Arabic,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
writing  there  was  a  large  cross  drawn.  I  kissed  the  cross,  took  the 
crowns  and  returned  to  the  terrace,  and  we  all  made  our  salaams ; 
again  the  hand  appeared,  I  made  signs  that  I  would  read  the  paper, 
and  then  the  window  was  closed.  We  were  all  puzzled,  though  filled 
with  joy  at  what  had  taken  place ;  and  as  none  of  us  understood 
Arabic,  great  was  our  curiosity  to  know  what  the  paper  contained,  and 
still  greater  the  difficulty  of  finding  some  one  to  read  it.  At  last  I 
resolved  to  confide  in  a  renegade,  a  native  of  JMurcia,  who  professed 
a  very  great  friendship  for  me,  and  had  given  pledges  that  bound  him 
to  keep  any  secret  I  might  intrust  to  him  ;  for  it  is  the  custom  with 
some  renegades,  when  they  intend  to  return  to  Christian  territoiy, 
to  carry  about  them  certificates  from  captives  of  mark  testifying,  in 
whatever  form  they  can,  that  such  and  such  a  renegade  is  a  worthy 
man  who  has  always  shown  kindness  to  Christians,  and  is  anxious 

'  La  Pata,  a  fort  near  Oran. 


CHAPTER    XL.  341 

to  escape  on  the  first  opportunity  tli.-it  may  present  itself.  Some 
obtain  tliese  testimonials  with  good  intentions,  others  put  them  to  a 
cunning  use;  for  wlien  they  go  to  pillage  on  Christian  territory,  if 
they  chance  to  be  cast  away,  or  taken  prisoners,  they  produce  their 
certificates  and  say  that  fnjm  these  papers  may  ha  seen  tiie  oljjecit 
they  came  for,  which  was  to  remain  on  Ciiristian  ground,  and  that  it 
was  to  this  end  they  joined  the  Turks  in  their  foray.  In  this  way 
they  escape  the  consequences  of  the  first  outburst  and  maice  tlieir 
peace  with  the  riuirch  before  it  does  them  any  harm,  and  tlien  when 
they  have  the  chance  they  return  to  l>arbary  to  become  wiiat  they 
were  before.  Others,  however,  there  are  who  procure  these  papers 
and  make  use  of  them  honestly,  and  remain  on  Christian  soil.  This 
friend  of  mine,  then,  was  one  of  these;  renegades  that  I  have  de- 
scribed ;  he  had  certificates  from  all  our  comrades,  in  which  we  tes- 
tified in  his  favor  as  strongly  as  we  could ;  and  if  the  Moors  had 
found  the  j)apers  they  would  have  burned  him  alive. 

I  knew  that  he  understood  Arabic  very  well,  and  could  not  only 
speak  but  also  write  it ;  but  before  I  disclosed  the  whole  matter  to 
him,  I  asked  him  to  read  for  me  this  paper  which  I  had  found  by 
accident  in  a  hole  in  my  cell.  He  opened  it  and  remained  sometime 
examining  it  and  muttering  to  himself  as  he  translated  it.  I  asked 
him  if  he  understood  it,  and  he  told  me  he  did  perfectly  well,  and 
that  if  I  wished  him  to  tell  me  its  meaning  word  for  word,  I  niust 
give  him  pen  and  ink  that  he  might  do  it  more  satisfactorily.  We 
at  once  gave  him  what  he  required,  and  he  set  aljout  translating  it 
bit  by  bit,  and  when  he  had  done  he  said,  "All  that  is  here  in 
Spanish  is  what  tiie  JMoorish  paper  contains,  and  you  must  bear  in 
mind  that  when  it  says,  '  Lela  Marien  '  it  means  Our  Lady  the 
Virgin  Mary.'  "     We  read  the  ])aper  and  it  ran  thus  : 

"  When  I  was  a  cliild  ni}'  father  had  a  slave  who  taught  me  to 
pray  the  Christian  ])rayer  in  my  own  language,  and  told  me  many 
things  about  Lela  Marien.  The  Christian  died,  and  I  know  that  she 
did  not  go  to  the  fire,  but  to  Allah,  because  since  then  I  have  seen 
her  twice,  and  slie  told  me  to  go  to  the  land  of  the  Christians  to  see 
i>ela  Marien,  who  had  great  love  for  me.  I  know  not  how  to  go. 
I  have  seen  many  Christians,  but  except  thyself  none  has  seemed  to 
me  to  be  a  gentleman.  I  am  young  and  beautiful,  and  have  plenty 
of  money  to  take  with  me.  See  if  thou  canst  contrive  how  we  may 
go,  and  if  thou  wilt  thou  shalt  be  my  huslxind  tliere,  and  if  thou  wilt 
not  it  will  not  distress  me,  for  Lela  ISlarien  will  find  me  some  one  to 
marry  me.  I  myself  have  written  this  :  have  a  care  to  whom  thou 
givest  it  to  read  :  trust  no  Moor,  for  they  are  all  perfidious.  1  ani 
greatly  troubled  on  this  account,  for  1  would  not  have  thee  confide 
in  any  one,  because  if  my  father  knew  it  he  would  at  once  fling  me 
down  a  well  and  cover  me  Avith  stones.  I  will  2iut  a  thread  to  the 
reed ;  tie  the  answer  to  it,  and  if  thou  hast  no  one  to  write  for  thee 
in  Arabic,  tell  it  to  me  by  signs,  for  Lela  Marien  will  make  me  un- 
dei'stand  thee.  She  and  Allah  and  this  cross,  which  I  often  kiss  as 
the  captive  bade  me,  protect  thee." 

Judge,  sirs,  whether  we  had  reason  for  surprise  and  joy  at  the 


342  •      DON    QUIXOTE. 

words  of  this  paj^er ;  and  both  one  and  the  otlier  were  so  gi-eat,  that 
the  renegade  perceived  that  the  paper  had  not  been  found  by  chance, 
but  had  Ijeen  in  reality  addressed  to  some  one  of  us,  and  he  begged 
us,  if  what  lie  svispected  were  the  truth,  to  trust  him  and  tell  him 
all,  for  he  would  risk  his  life  for  our  freedom;  and  so  saying  he 
took  out  from  his  breast  a  metal  crucifix,  and  with  many  tears  swore 
by  the  God  the  image  represented,  in  whom,  sinful  and  wicked  as  he 
was,  he  truly  and  faithfully  believed,  to  be  loyal  to  us  and  keep 
secret  whatever  we  chose  to  reveal  to  him ;  for  he  thought  and 
almost  foresaw  that  by  means  of  her  who  had  written  that  paper,  he 
and  all  of  us  would  obtain  our  liberty,  and  he  himself  obtain  the 
object  he  so  much  desired,  Jiis  restoration  to  the  bosom  of  the  Holy 
Mother  Church,  from  which  by  his  own  sin  and  ignorance  he  was 
now  severed  like  a  corrupt  limb.  The  renegade  said  this  with  so 
many  tears  and  such  signs  of  repentance,  that  with  one  consent  we 
all  agreed  to  tell  him  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter,  and  so  we  gave 
him  a  full  account 'of  all,  without  hiding  anj'thing  from  him.  We 
pointed  out  to  him  the  window  at  which  the  reed  appeared,  and  he 
by  that  means  took  note  of  the  house,  and  resolved  to  ascertain  with 
particular  care  who  lived  in  it.  We  agreed  also  that  it  would-be  ad- 
visable to  answer  the  INloorish  lady's  letter,  and  the  renegade  without 
a  moment's  delay  took  down  the  words  I  dictated  to  him,  which  were 
exactly  what  I  shall  tell  you,  for  nothing  of  imj^ortance  that  took 
place  in  this  aflair  has  escaped  my  memory,  or  ever  will  while  life 
lasts.     This,  then,  was  the  answer  returned  to  the  Moorish  lady  : 

"  The  true  Allah  protect  thee,  Lad}',  and  that  blessed  ]Marien  who 
is  the  true  mother  of  God,  and  who  has  put  it  into  thy  heart  to  go  to 
the  land  of  the  Christians,  because  she  loves  thee.  Entreat  her  that 
she  be  pleased  to  show  thee  how  thou  canst  execute  the  command 
she  gives  thee,  for  she  will,  such  is  her  goodness.  On  my  own  part, 
and  on  that  of  all  these  Christians  who  are  with  me,  I  promise  to  do 
all  that  we  can  for  thee,  even  to  death.  Fail  not  to  write  to  me  and 
inform  me  what  thou  dost  mean  to  do,  and  I  will  always  answer 
thee  ;  for  the  great  Allah  has  given  us  a  Christian  captive  who  can 
speak  and  write  thy  language  well,  as  thou  mayest  see  by  this  paper : 
without  fear,  therefore,  thou  canst  inform  us  of  all  thou  wouldst. 
As  to  what  thou  sayost,  that  if  thou  dost  reach  the  land  of  the 
Christians  thou  wilt  be  my  wife,  I  give  thee  my  promise  upon  it  as 
a  good  Christian  ;  and  know  that  the  Christians  keep  their  promises 
better  than  the  floors.  Allah  and  j\Iarien  his  mother  watch  over 
thee,  my  Lady." 

The  paper  being  written  and  folded  I  waited  two  days  until  the 
baiio  was  empty  as  before,  and  immediately  repaired  to  the  usual 
walk  on  the  terrace  to  see  if  there  were  any  sign  of  the  reed,  which 
was  not  long  in  making  its  appearance.  As  soon  as  I  saw  it,  although 
T  could  not  distinguish  who  i)ut  it  out,  I  showed  the  paper  as  a  sign 
to  attach  the  thread,  l)ut  it  was  already  tixed  to  the  reed,  and  to  it  I 
tied  the  i^aper ;  and  shortly  afterwards  our  star  once  more  made  its 
appearance  with  the  white  tlag  of  peace,  the  little  bundle.  It  was 
dropped,  and  I  picked  it  up,  and  fouud  in  the  cloth,  in  gold  and- 


CHAPTER    XL.  348 

silver  coins  of  all  sorts,  more  than  fifty  crowns,  which  fifty  times 
more  doubled  our  joy  and  strengthened  our  hope  of  gaining  our 
liberty.  That  very  night  our  renegade  returned  and  said  lie  had 
learned  tliat  the  Moor  we  liad  Ijeen  toUl  of  lived  in  that  house,  that 
liis  name  was  Hailji  Morato,  tliat  lie  was  enormously  rich,  that  he 
had  one  only  daughter  the  heiress  of  all  his  wealth,  and  that  it  was 
the  general  opinion  throughout  the  cit}-  that  she  was  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman  in  Barbary,  and  that  several  of  the  viceroys  who  came 
there  had  sought  her  for  a  wife,  but  that  she  had  been  always  un- 
willing to  marry ;  and  he  had  learned,  moreover,  that  she  had  a 
Christian  slave  who  was  now  dead ;  all  which  agreed  with  the  con- 
tents of  the  paper.  We  immediately  took  counsel  with  the  renegade 
as  to  what  means  would  have  to  be  adopted  in  order  to  carry  off  the 
Moorish  lady  and  bring  us  all  to  Christian  territory  ;  and  in  the  end 
it  was  agreed  that  for  the  jjresent  we  should  wait  for  a  second  com- 
munication from  Zoi-aida  (for  that  was  the  name  of  her  who  now 
desires  to  be  called  Maria),  because  we  saw  clearly  that  she  and  no 
one  else  could  find  a  way  out  of  all  these  difficulties.  When  we  had 
decided  upon  this  the  renegade  told  us  not  to  be  uneasy,  for  he 
would  lose  his  life  or  restore  us  to  liberty.  For  four  days  the  bano 
was  filled  with  people,  for  which  reason  the  I'eed  delayed  its  appeai*- 
ance  for  four  days,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time,  when  the  bano  was, 
as  it  generally  was,  empty,  it  appeared  with  the  cloth  so  bulky  that 
it  promised  a  happy  birth.  Reed  and  cloth  came  down  to  me,  and  I 
found  another  paper  and  a  hundred  crowns  in  gold,  without  any 
other  coin.  The  renegade  was  present,  and  in  our  cell  we  gave  him 
the  paper  to  read,  which  he  said  was  to  this  eflect : 

"  I  can  not  think  of  a  plan,  sehor,  for  our  going  to  Spain,  nor  has 
Lela  Marien  shown  me  one,  though  I  have  asked  her.  All  that  can 
be  done  is  for  me  to  give  you  plenty  of  money  in  gold  from  this 
window.  With  it  ransom  yourself  and  your  friends,  and  let  one  of 
you  go  to  the  land  of  the  Christians,  and  there  buy  a  vessel  and 
come  back  for  the  others  ;  and  he  will  find  me  in  my  father's  garden, 
whicli  is  at  the  Babazoun  gate  '  near  the  sea-shore,  where  I  shall  be 
all  this  summer  with  my  father  and  my  servants.  You  can  carry  me 
away  from  there  by  night  without  any  danger,  and  bring  me  to  the 
vessel.  And  remember  thou  art  to  be  my  husbantl,  else  I  will  pray 
to  Marien  to  punish  thee.  If  thou  canst  not  trust  any  one  to  go  for 
the  vessel,  ransom  thyself  and  do  thou  go,  for  I  know  thou  wilt  re- 
turn more  surely  than  any  other,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  and  a 
Christian.  Endeavor  to  make  thyself  acquainted  with  the  garden; 
and  when  I  see  thee  walking  yonder  I  shall  know  that  the  bano  is 
empty  and  I  will  give  thee  abundance  of  money.  Allah  protect  thee, 
seiior." 

These  were  the  words  and  contents  of  the  second  i?aper,  and 
on  hearing  them,  each  declared  himself  willing  to  be  the  ransomed 
one,  and  promised  to  go  and  return  with  scrupulous  good  faith ;  and 
I  too  made  the  same  offer;  but  to  all  this  the  i-enegade  objected, 
saying  that  he  would  not  on  any  account  consent  to  one  being  set 

'Babazoun,  "the  gate  of  grief,"  the  south  gate  of  Algiers. 


S44  DON    QUIXOTE. 

free  before  all  went  together,  as  experience  had  taught  him  how  ill 
those  who  have  been  set  free  keep  promises  which  they  made  in 
captivity  ;  for  captives  of  distinction  frequently  had  recourse  to  this 
plan,  paying  the  ransom  of  one  who  was  to  go  to  Valencia  or  Majorca 
with  money  to  enable  him  to  arm  a  bark  and  return  for  the  others 
who  had  ransomed  him ;  but  who  never  came  back ;  for  recovered 
liberty  and  the  dread  of  losing  it  again  eft'ace  from  the  memory  all 
the  obligations  in  the  world.  And  to  prove  the  truth  of  what  he  said, 
he  told  us  briefly  what  had  happened  to  a  certain  Christian  gentle- 
man almost  at  that  very  time,  the  strangest  case  that  had  ever 
occurred  even  there,  where  astonishing  and  marvellous  things  are 
happening  every  instant.  In  short,  he  ended  b}'  saying  that  what 
could  and  ought  to  be  done  was  to  give  the  money  intended  for  the 
ransom  of  one  of  us  Christians  to  him,  so  that  he  might  with  it  buy 
a  vessel  there  in  Algiers  under  the  pretence  of  becoming  a  merchant 
and  trading  to  Tetuan  and  along  the  coast;  and  when  master  of 
the  vessel,  it  would  be  easy  for  him  to  hit  on  someway  of  getting  us 
all  out  of  the  baiio  and  putting  us  on  board  ;  especially  if  the  Moorish 
lady  gave,  as  she  saitl,  money  enough  to  ransom  all,  because  once 
free  it  would  he  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  us  to  embark  even 
in  open  day ;  but  the  greatest  difficulty  was  that  the  Moors  do  not 
allow  any  renegade  to  buy  or  own  any  craft,  vmless  it  be  a  large 
vessel  for  going  on  roving  expeditions,  because  they  are  afraid  that 
any  one  who  buys  a  small  vessel,  especially  if  he  be  a  Spaniard,  only 
wants  it  for  the  purpose  of  escaping  to  Christian  territory.  This 
however  he  could  get  over  by  arranging  with  a  Tagarin  Moor  to  go 
shares  with  him  in  the  i)urchase  of  the  vessel  and  in  the  profit  on  the 
cargo  ;  and  under  cover  of  this  h(!  could  become  master  of  the  vessel, 
in  which  case  he  looked  upon  all  the  rest  as  accomplished.  But 
though  to  me  and  my  comrades  it  had  seemed  a  better  plan  to  send 
to  Majorca  for  the  vessel,  as  the  Moorish  lady  suggested,  we  did  not 
dare  to  oppose  him,  fearing  that  if  we  did  not  do  as  he  said  he  would 
denounce  us,  and  place  us  in  danger  of  losing  all  our  lives  if  he  were 
to  disclose  our  dealings  with  Zoraida,  for  whose  life  we  would  have 
all  ^iven  our  own.  We  therefore  resolved  to  put  ourselves  in  the 
hands  of  God  and  in  the  renegade's  ;  and  at  the  same  time  an  answer 
was  given  to  Zoraida,  telling  her  that  we  would  do  all  she  recom- 
mended, for  she  had  given  as  good  advice  as  if  Lela  Marien  had 
delivered  it,  and  that  it  depended  on  her  alone  whether  we  were  to 
defer  the  business  or  put  it  in  execution  at  once.  I  renewed  my 
promise  to  be  her  husband ;  and  thus  the  next  day  that  the  bafio 
chanced  to  be  emjjty  she  at  difierent  times  gave  us  by  means  of  the 
reed  and  cloth  two  thousand  gold  crowns  and  a  paper  in  which  she 
said  that  the  next  Junia,  that  is  to  sa}'  Friday,  she  was  going  to  her 
father's  garden,  but  that  before  she  went  she  would  give  us  more 
money ;  and  if  it  were  not  enough  we  were  to  let  her  know,  as  she 
would  give  us  as  much  as  we  asked,  for  her  father  had  so  much  he 
would  not  miss  it,  and  besides  she  kept  all  the  keys. 

We  at  once  gave  the  renegade  five   hundred   crowns  to  buy  the 
vessel,  and  with  eight  hundred  I  ransomed  myself,  giving  the  money 


CHAPTER    XLL  345 

to  a  Valenciaii  merchant  who  hai:)pene<l  to  be  in  Algiers  at  the  time, 
and  who  had  me  released  on  his  word,  pledging  it  that  on  the  arrival 
of  the  first  ship  from  Valencia  he  wonld  pay  my  ransom ;  for  if  he 
had  given  the  money  at  once  it  would  have  made  the  king  suspect 
tliat  my  ransom  money  had  been  for  a  long  time  in  Algiers,  and  that 
the  merchant  had  for  his  own  advantage  kept  it  secret.  In  fact  my 
master  was  so  difficult  to  deal  with  that  1  dared  not  on  any  account 
pay  down  the  money  at  once.  The  Thui'sday  before  the  Friday  on 
which  the  fair  Zoraida  was  to  go  to  the  garden  she  gave  ns  a  thou- 
sand crowns  more,  and  warned  us  of  her  departure,  begging  me,  if 
I  were  ransomed,  to  find  out  her  father's  garden  at  once,  and  by  all 
means  to  seek  an  opportunity  of  going  there  to  see  her.  I  answered 
in  a  few  words  that  I  would  do  so,  and  that  she  must  rememl:)er  to 
commend  us  to  Lela  Marien  with  all  tlie  prayei'S  the  captive  had 
taught  her.  This  having  been  done,  steps  were  taken  to  ransom  our 
three  comrades,  so  as  to  enable  them  to  quit  the  bano,  and  lest,  see- 
ing me  ransomed  and  themselves  not,  though  the  money  was  forth- 
coming, they  should  make  a  disturbance  about  it  and  the  devil  should 
prompt  them  to  do  something  that  might  injure  Zoraida;  for  though 
their  position  might  be  sufficient  to  relieve  me  from  this  apj^re- 
hension,  nevertheless  I  was  unwilling  to  run  any  risk  in  tiie  matter; 
and  so  I  had  them  ransomed  in  the  same  way  as  I  was,  handing  over 
all  the  money  to  the  merchant  so  that  he  might  with  safety  and  con- 
fidence give  security;  witliout,  however,  confiding  our  arrangement 
and  secret  to  him,  which  might  have  been  dangerous. 


CHAPTFE     XLL 


IN  "WHICH  THE  CAPTIVE  STILL  CONTINUES  HIS  ADVENTURES. 

Before  fifteen  days  were  over  our  renegade  had  already  pur- 
chased an  excellent  vessel  with  room  for  more  than  thirty  persons ; 
and  to  make  the  transaction  safe  and  lend  a  color  to  it,  he  thought  it 
well  to  make,  as  he  did,  a  voyage  to  a  place  called  Shershel,  twenty 
leagues  from  Algiers  on  the  Oran  side,  where  there  is  an  extensive 
trade  in  dried  rigs.  Two  or  three  times  he  made  this  vo3'age  in  com- 
pany with  the  Tagarin  already  mentioned.  The  Moors  of  Aragon 
are  called  Tagarins  in  Barbary,  and  those  of  Granada  IMudejares  ;  but 
in  the  Kingdom  of  Fez  thej  call  the  Mudejares  Elches,  and  the}^  are 
the  people  the  king  chiefly  employs  in  war.  To  proceed  :  every  time 
lie  passed  with  his  vessel  he  anchored  in  a  cove  that  was  not  two 
cross-bow  shots  from  the  garden  where  Zoraida  was  waiting ;  and 
there  the  renegade,  together  with  the  two  JNIoorish  lads  that  rowed, 
used  purposely  to  station  himself,  either  going  through  his  prayers, 
or  else  practising  as  a  pai't  what  he  meant  to  perform  in  earnest. 
And  thus  he  would  go  to  Zoi-aida's  garden  and  ask  for  fruit,  which 
her  father  gave  him,  not  knowing  him  ;  but  though,  as  he  afterwards 


B46  DON  QUIXOTE. 

told  me,  he  sought  to  speak  to  Zoraida,  and  tell  hei"  who  he  was, 
and  that  by  my  orders  he  was  to  take  her  to  the  land  of  the  Christians, 
so  that  she  might  feel  satisfied  and  easy,  he  had  never  been  able  to 
do  so ;  for  the  jNIoorish  women  do  not  allow  themselves  to  be  seen 
by  any  Moor  or  Turk,  unless  their  husband  or  fathers  bid  them : 
with  Christian  captives  they  permit  freedom  of  intercourse 
and  communication,  even  more  than  might  be  considered  proper. 
But  for  my  part,  I  should  have  been  sorry  if  he  had  s^joken  to  her, 
for  perhaps  it  might  have  alarmed  her  to  find  her  affairs  talked  of  by 
renegades.  But  God,  who  ordered  it  otherwise,  afforded  no  opportu- 
nity for  our  renegade's  well-meant  jjurpose ;  and  he,  seeing  how 
safely  he  could  go  to  Shershel  and  return,  and  anchor  when  and  how 
and  where  he  liked,  and  that  the  Tagarin  his  partner  had  no  will  but 
his,  and  that,  now  I  was  ransomed,  all  we  wanted  was  to  find  some 
Christians  to  row,  told  me  to  look  out  for  any  I  should  be  willing  to 
take  with  me,  over  and  above  those  who  had  been  ransomed,  and  to 
engage  them  for  the  next  Friday,  which  he  fixed  upon  for  our  de- 
parture. On  this  I  spoke  to  twelve  Spaniards,  all  stout  rowers,  and 
such  as  could  most  easily  leave  the  city ;  but  it  was  no  easy  matter  to 
find  so  many  just  then,  because  there  were  twenty  ships  out  on  a 
cruise,  and  they  had  taken  all  the  rowers  with  them  ;  and  these  would 
not  have  been  found  were  it  not  that  their  master  remained  at  home 
that  summer  without  going  to  sea,  in  order  to  finish  a  galliot  that  he 
had  upon  the  stocks.  To  these  men  I  said  nothing  more  than  that 
the  next  Friday  in  the  evening,  they  were  to  come  out  stealthily  one 
by  one  aud  hang  about  Hadji  Morato's  garden,  waiting  for  me  there 
until  I  came.  These  directions  I  gave  each  one  separately,  with  or- 
ders that  if  they  saw  any  other  Christians  there,  they  were  not  to  say 
anything  to  them,  except  that  I  had  directed  them  to  wait  at  that 
spot. 

This  preliminary  having  been  settled,  anotiier  still  more  necessary 
step  had  to  be  taken,  which  was  to  let  Zoraida  know  how  matters 
stood  that  she  might  be  prepared  and  forewarned,  so  as  not  to  be 
taken  by  surprise  if  we  Avere  suddenly  to  seize  upon  her  before  she 
thought  the  Christians'  vessel  could  have  returned.  I  determined, 
therefore",  to  go  to  the  garden  and  try  if  I  could  speak  to  her ;  and 
the  day  before  my  departure  I  went  there  under  the  j^retence  of 
gathering  herbs.  The  first  person  I  met  was  her  father,  who  ad- 
dressed me  in  the  language  that  all  over  Barbai'y  and  even  in  Con- 
stantinople is  the  medium  between  captives  and  Moors,  and  is  neither 
Morisco  nor  Castilian,  nor  of  any  other  nation,  but  a  mixture  of  all 
languages,  by  means  of  which  we  can  all  understand  one  another. 
In  this  sort  of  language,  I  say,  he  asked  me  what  I  wanted  in  his  gar- 
den, and  to  whom  I  belonged.  I  replied  that  I  was  a  slave  of  the  Ar- 
naut  Mami'  (for  I  knew  as  a  certainty  that  he  was  a  very  great  friend 
of  his) ,  and  that  I  wanted  some  herbs  to  make  a  salad.     He  asked 

'  Tlie  Arn.aiit  Mami  was  the  captor  of  the  Sol  galley  on  hoard  of  wliich 
Cervantes  and  his  brother  Rodrigo  were  returning  to  Spain.  He  was 
noted  for  his  cruelty,  and  was  said  to  have  his  house  futl  of  noseless  and 
earless  Christians. 


CHAPTER    XLL  347 

me  then  whether  Tvere  on  ransom  or  not,  and  what  my  master  de- 
manded for  me.  While  these  questions  and  answers  were  proceed- 
ing, the  fair  Zoraida.  who  had  already  perceived  me  some  time 
before,  came  out  of  the  liou.se  in  the  j^-arden,  and  as  Moorish  women 
are  by  no  means  particular  about  letting  themselves  be  seen  l)y  Chris- 
tians, or,  as  1  have  said  before,  at  all  coy,  she  had  no  hesitation  in 
coming  to  where  her  father  stood  with  me ;  moreover  her  father, 
seeing  her  approaching  slowly,  called  to  her  to  come.  It  would 
be  beyond  my  power  now  to  describe  to  you  the  great  beauty, 
the  high-bred  air,  the  ricli  brilliant  attire  of  my  beloved  Zora- 
ida as  she  presented  herself  before  my  eyes.  I  will  content 
myself  with  saying  that  more  ])earls  hung  from  her  fair  neck, 
her  ears,  and  her  hair  than  she  had  hairs  on  her  head.  On  her  ankles, 
which  as  is  customary  were  bare,  she  had  carcajes  (for  so  bracelets 
or  anklets  are  called  in  Morisco)  of  the  purest  gold,  set  with  so  many 
diamonds  that  she  tokl  me  afterwards  liei'  father  valued  them  at  ten 
thousand  doubloons,  and  those  she  had  on  her  wrists  were  worth  as 
much  more.  The  pearls  were  in  profusion  and  very  fine,  for  the 
highest  disjjlay  and  adornment  of  the  Moorish  women  is  decking 
themselves  with  rich  pearls  and  seed-pearls ;  and  of  these  there  are 
therefore  more  among  the  Moors  than  among  any  other  people. 
Zoraida's  father  had  the  reputation  of  possessing^  a  great  number, 
and  the  purest  in  all  Algiers,  and  of  possessing  also  more  than  two 
hundred  thousand  Spanish  crowns  ;  and  she,  who  is  now  mistress  of 
me  only,  was  mistress  of  all  this.  Whetlier  thus  adorned  she  would 
have  been  beautiful  or  not,  and  what  she  must  have  been  in  her 
prosperity,  may  be  imagined  from  the  beauty  remaining  to  her 
after  so  many  hardships  ;  for,  as  every  orje  knows,  the  beauty  of  some 
women  has  its  times  audits  seasons,  and  is  increased  or  diminished  by 
chance  causes;  and  naturally  the  emotions  of  the  mind  will  heighten 
or  impair  it,  though  indeed  more  frequently  they  totally  destroy  it. 
In  a  word  she  presented  herself  before  me  that  day  attired  with  tlie 
utmost  splendor,  and  supremely  beautiful ;  at  any  rate,  she  seemed 
to  me  the  most  beautiful  object  I  had  ever  seen  ;  and  when,  besides, 
1  thought  of  all  I  owed  to  her  I  felt  as  though  I  had  l)efore  me  some 
heavenly  being  come  to  eartli  to  bring  me  relief  and  happiness. 

As  she  approached,  her  father  told  her  in  his  own  language  that 
I  was  a  captive  belonging  to  his  friend  the  Arnaut  Mami,  and  that  i 
had  come  for  salad. 

She  took  up  the  conversation,  and  in  that  mixture  of  tongues  I  have 
spoken  of  she  asked  me  if  I  was  a  gentleman,  and  \y\\j  I  was  not 
ransomed. 

I  answered  that  I  was  already  ransomed,  and  that  by  the  price  it 
might  be  seen  what  value  my  master  set  on  me,  as  they  had  given 
one  thousand  five  hundred  zoltanis'  for  me;  to  which  siie  replied, 
"  Hadst  thou  been  my  father's,  I  can  tell  thee,  I  would  not  have  let 
him  pai't  with  thee  for  twice  as  much,  for  you  Christians  always  tell 
lies  about  yourselves  and  make  yourselves  out  poor  to  cheat  the 
Moors." 

'  An  Algerine  coin  equal  to  about  thirty-six  reals. 


B48  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  That  may  be,  lady,"  said  I ;  "  but  indeed  I  dealt  truthfully  with 
my  master,  as  I  do  and  mean  to  do  with  everybody  in  the  world." 

•'  And  when  dost  thou  go  ?"  said  Zoraida. 

"To-morrow,  I  think,"  said  I,  "for  there  is  a  vessel  here  from 
France  which  sails  to-morrow,  and  I  think  1  shall  go  in  her." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  said  Zoraida,  "  to  wait  for  the  arrival  of 
ships  from  S]min  and  go  with  them,  and  not  with  the  French  who  are 
not  your  friends  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I ;  "  though  if  there  were  intelligence  that  a  vessel  were 
now  coming  from  Spain  it  is  true  I  might,  perhaps,  wait  for  it;  how- 
ever, it  is  more  likely  I  shall  depart  to- morrow,  for  the  longing  I  feel 
to  return  to  my  country  and  to  tliose  I  love  is  so  great  that  it  will  not 
allow  me  to  wait  for  another  opportunity,  however  more  convenient, 
if  it  be  delayed." 

"  No  doubt  thou  art  married  in  thine  own  country,"  said  Zoraida, 
"  and  for  that  reason  thou  art  anxious  to  go  and  see  thy  wife." 

"  I  am  not  married,"  1  replied,  "  but  I  have  given  my  promise  to 
marry  on  my  arrival  there." 

"And  is  the  lady  beautiful  to  whom  thou  hast  given  it?"  said 
Zoraida. 

"So  beautiful,"  said  I,  "that,  to  describe  her  worthily  and  tell 
thee  the  truth,  shQ  is  very  like  thee." 

At  this  her  father  laughed  very  heartily  and  said,  "  By  Allah,  Chris- 
tian, she  must  be  very  beautiful  if  she  is  like  my  daughter,  who  is 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  all  this  kingdom :  only  look  at  her  well 
and  thou  wilt  see  I  am  telling  the  truth." 

Zoraida's  father  as  the  better  linguist  helped  to  interpret  most  of 
these  words  and  plirases,  for  though  she  spoke  the  bastard  language, 
that,  as  I  have  said,  is  employed  there,  she  expressed  her  meaning 
more  by  signs  than  by  words. 

While  we  were  still  engaged  in  this  conversation,  a  Moor  came 
running  up,  exclaiming  that  four  Turks  had  leaped  over  the  fence  or 
wall  of  the  garden,  and  were  gathering  the  fruit,  though  it  was  not 
yet  ripe.  The  old  man  was  alarmed  and  Zoraida  too,  for  the  Moors 
<;oramonl}%  and,  so  to  speak,  instinctively  have  a  dread  of  the  Turks, 
but  particularly  of  the  soldiers,  who  are  so  insolent  and  domineering 
to  the  Moors  who  are  under  their  power  that  they  treat  them  worse 
than  if  they  were  their  slaves.  So  her  father  said  to  Zoraida, 
"Daughter,  i-etire  into  the  house  and  shut  thyself  in  while  I  go  and 
speak  to  these  dogs;  and  thou.  Christian,  pick  thy  herbs,  and  go  in 
peace,  and  Allah  bring  thee  safe  to  thy  own  country." 

I  bowed,  and  he  went  away  to  look  for  the  Turks,  leaving  me 
alone  with  Zoraida,  wlio  made  as  if  she  were  about  to  retire  as  her 
father  bade  her ;  but  the  moment  he  was  concealed  by  the  trees  of 
the  garden,  turning  to  me  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears  she  said, 
"Tameji,  cristiano,  tameji?  "  that  is  to  say,  "Art  thou  going.  Chris- 
tian, art  thou  going  ?  " 

I  made  answer,  "  Yes,  lady,  but  not  without  thee,  come  what  may: 
be  on  the  watch  for  me  on  the  next  Jum;'i,  and  be  not  alarmed  when 
thou  seest  us ;  for  most  surely  we  shall  go  to  the  land  of  the  Chris- 
■  tiaus." 


CHAPTER    XLL  840 

This  I  said  in  such  a  way  that  she  understood  perfectly  all  that 
passed  between  us,  and  throwing  her  arm  round  my  neck  she  began 
with  feeble  steps  to  move  towards  the  house ;  but  as  fate  would  have 
it  (and  it  might  have  been  very  lui  fortunate  if  Heaven  had  not  other- 
wise ordered  it),  just  as  we  were  moving  on  in  the  manner  and  posi- 
tion I  have  described,  with  her  arm  round  my  neck,  her  father,  as  he 
returned  after  having  sent  away  the  Turks,  saw  how  we  were  walk- 
ing and  we  perceived  that  he  saw  us ;  but  Zoraida,  ready  and  quick- 
witted, took  care  not  to  remove  her  arm  from  my  neck,  but  on  the 
contrary  drew  closer  to  me  and  laid  her  head  on  my  breast,  bending 
her  knees  a  little  and  showing  all  the  signs  and  tokens  of  faintiny, 
while  I  at  the  same  time  maile  it  seem  as  though  I  were  supporting 
her  against  my  will.  Her  father  came  running  up  to  wliere  we 
were,  and  seeing  his  daughter  in  this  state  asked  what  was  the  mat- 
ter with  her;  she,  however,  giving  no  answer,  he  said,  "  No  doubt 
she  has  fainted  in  alarm  at  the  entrance  of  those  dogs,"  and  taking 
her  from  mine  he  drew  her  to  his  own  breast,  while  she  sighing,  her 
eyes  still  wet  with  tears,  said  again,  "  Ameji,  cristiano,  ameji  "  — 
"  Go,  Christian,  go."  To  this  her  father  replied,  "There  is  no  need, 
daughter,  for  the  Christian  to  go,  for  he  has  done  thee  no  harm,  and 
the  Turks  have  now  gone ;  feel  no  alarm,  there  is  nothing  to  hurt 
thee,  for  as  I  sa}',  the  Turks  at  my  request  have  gone  back  the  way 
they  came." 

"  It  was  they  who  ten-itied  her,  as  thou  hast  said,  senor,"  said  1  to 
her  father ;  "  but  since  she  tells  me  to  go,  I  have  no  wish  to  displease 
her:  peace  be  with  thee,  and  with  thy  leave  I  will  come  back  to  this 
garden  for  herbs  if  need  be,  for  my  master  says  there  are  nowhere 
better  herbs  for  salad  than  here." 

"  Come  back  for  any  thou  hast  need  of,"  replied  Hadji  Moi'ato ; 
"  for  my  daughter  does  not  speak  thus  because  she  is  displeased  witli 
thee  or  any  Chi'istian :  she  only  meant  that  the  Turks  should  go,  not 
thou  ;  or  that  it  was  time  for  thee  to  look  for  thy  herbs." 

With  this  I  at  once  took  my  leave  of  both ;  and  she,  looking  as 
though  her  heart  were  breaking,  retired  with  her  father.  While 
pretending  to  look  for  herbs  I  made  the  round  of  the  garden  at  my 
ease,  and  studied  carefully  all  the  ajDproaches  and  outlets,  and  the 
fastenings  of  the  house  and  everything  that  could  be  taken  advan- 
tage of  to  make  our  task  easy.  Having  done  so  1  went  and  gave  an 
account  of  all  that  had  taken  place  to  the  renegade  and  my  comrades, 
and  looked  forward  with  impatience  to  the  hour  when,  all  fear  at  an 
end,  I  should  find  myself  in  possession  of  the  prize  which  fortune 
held  out  to  me  in  the  fair  and  lovely  Zoraida.  The  time  passed  at 
length,  and  the  apjwinted  day  we  so  longed  for  arrived;  and,  all 
following  out  the  arrangement  and  plan  which,  after  careful  con- 
sideration and  many  a  long  discussion,  we  had  decided  upon,  we 
succeeded  as  fully  as  we  could  have  wished ;  for  on  the  Friday  fol- 
lowing the  day  upon  which  I  spoke  to  Zoraida  in  the  garden,  the 
renegade  anchored  his  vessel  at  nightfall  almost  opposite  the  spot 
where  she  was.  The  Christians  who  were  to  row  were  ready  and  in 
hiding  in  ditferent  places  round  about,  all  waiting  for  me,  anxious 


350  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  elated,  and  eager  to  attack  the  vessel  they  had  before  their  eyes ; 
for  they  did  not  linow  the  renegade's  plan,  but  expected  that  tliey 
were  to  gain  their  liberty  by  force  of  arms  and  b}"  killing  the  Moors 
who  were  on  board  the  vessel.  As  soon,  then,  as  I  and  my  comrades 
made  our  appearance,  all  those  that  were  in  hiding  seeing  us  came 
and  joined  us.  It  was  now  the  time  when  the  city  gates  are  shut, 
and  there  was  no  one  to  be  seen  in  all  the  space  outside.  When  we 
were  collected  together  we  debated  whether  it  would  be  better  first 
to  go  for  Zoraida,  or  to  make  prisoners  of  the  Moorish  rowers  who 
rowed  in  the  vessel ;  but  while  we  were  still  uncertain  our  renegade 
came  up  asking  us  what  kept  us,  as  it  was  now  the  time,  and  all 
the  ]\Ioors  were  oft"  their  guard  and  most  of  them  asleep.  We  told 
him  why  we  hesitated,  but  he  said  it  was  of  more  importance  first  to 
secure  the  vessel,  which  could  be  done  with  the  greatest  ease  and 
without  any  danger,  and  then  we  could  go  for  Zoraida.  We  all 
approved  of  what  he  said,  and  so  without  further  delay,  guided  by 
him  we  made  for  the  vessel,  and  he  leaping  on  board  first,  drew  his 
cutlass  and  said  in  Morisco,  "  Let  no  one  stir  from  this  if  he  does 
not  want  it  to  cost  him  life."  By  this  almost  all  the  Cln-istians  were 
on  board,  and  the  JNloors,  who  were  faint-liearted,  hearing  their 
captain  speak  in  this  way,  were  cowed,  and  without  any  one  of 
them  taking  to  his  arms  (and  indeed  they  had  few  or  hardly  any) 
they  submitted  without  saying  a  word  to  be  bound  by  the  Christians, 
who  quickly  secured  them,  threatening  them  that  if  they  raised  any 
kind  of  outciy  they  would  be  all  put  to  the  sword.  This  having  been 
aceoni|)lished,  and  half  of  our  party  being  left  to  keej?  guard  over 
them,  the  rest  of  us,  again  taking  the  renegade  as  our  guide,  hastened 
towards  Hadji  JNIorato's  garden,  and  as  good  luck  would  have  it, 
on  trying  the  gate  it  opened  as  readily  as  if  it  had  not  been  locked ; 
and  so,  quite  quietly  and  in  silence,  we  reached  the  house  without 
being  perceived  by  anybody.  The  lovel}^  Zoraida  was  watching  for 
us  at  a  window,  and  as  soon  as  she  perceived  that  there  were  jjeople 
there,  she  asked  in  a  low  voice  if  we  were  "  Nizarani,"  as  much  as 
to  say  or  ask  if  we  were  Christians.  I  answered  that  we  were,  and 
beo^o-ed  her  to  come  down.  As  soon  as  she  recoornized  me  she  did 
not  delay  an  mstant,  but  Avithout  answermg  a  word  came  down  im- 
mediately, opened  the  door  and  presented  hei'self  before  us  all,  so 
beautiful  and  so  richly  attired  that  I  cannot  attempt  to  describe  her. 
The  moment  I  saw  her  I  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  the  rene- 
gade and  my  two  comrades  did  the  same ;  and  the  rest,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  circumstances,  did  as  they  saw  us  do,  for  it  only 
seemed  as  if  we  wei'e  I'eturning  thanks  to  her,  and  recognizing  her 
as  the  giver  of  our  libert\'.  The  renegade  asked  her  in  the  Morisco 
language  if  her  father  was  in  the  house.  She  replied  that  he  was 
and  that  he  was  asleep. 

"  Then  it  will  be  necessary  to  waken  him  and  take  him  with  us," 
said  the  renegade,  "  and  everything  of  value  in  this  fair  mansion." 

"  Nay,"  said  she,  "  my  father  must  not  on  any  account  be  touched, 
and  there  is  nothing  in  the  house  except  what  I  shall  take,  and  that 
will  be  quite  enough  to  enrich  and  satisfy  all  of  you ;  wait  a  little  and 


CHAPTER    XLI.  351 

you  shall  see,"  and  so  saying  she  went  in  again,  telling  us  she  would 
return  immediately,  and  bidding  us  keep  quiet  without  making  any 
noise. 

I  asked  the  renegade  what  had  passed  between  them,  and  when  he 
told  me,  I  declared  that  nothing  should  be  done  except  in  accordance 
with  the  wishes  of  Zoraida,  who  now  came  back  with  a  little  trunk 
so  full  of  gold  crowns  that  she  could  scarcely  carry  it.  Unfortu- 
nately her  father  awoke,  while  this  was  going  on,  and  hearing  a  noise 
in  the  garden,  came  to  the  window,  and  at  once  perceiving  that  all 
those  who  were  there  were  Christians,  raising  a  prodigiously  loud 
outcry,  he  began  to  call  out  in  Arabic,  "Christians,  Christians! 
thieves,  thieves !  "  by  which  cries  we  were  all  thrown  into  the  greatest 
fear  and  embarrassment ;  but  the  renegade  seeing  the  danger  we 
were  in  and  how  important  it  was  for  him  to  effect  his  purpose  before 
we  were  heard,  mounted  with  the  utmost  quickness  to  where  Hadji 
Morato  was,  and  with  him  went  some  of  our  party ;  I,  however,  tlid 
not  dare  to  leave  Zoraida,  who  had  fallen  almost  fainting  in  my  arms. 
To  be  brief,  those  who  had  gone  upstairs  acted  so  promptly  that  in 
an  instant  they  came  down,  carrying  Hadji  Morato  with  his  hands 
bound  and  a  napkin  tied  over  his  mouth,  which  jjrevented  him  from 
uttering  a  word,  warning  him  at  the  same  time  that  to  attempt  to 
speak  would  cost  him  his  life.  When  his  daughter  caught  sight  of 
him  she  covei-ed  her  eyes  so  as  not  to  see  him,  and  her  father  was 
horror-stricken,  not  knowing  how  willingly  slie  had  placed  herself  in 
our  hands.  But  it  was  now  most  essential  for  us  to  be  on  the  move, 
and  carefully  and  (juickly  we  regained  the  vessel,  where  those  who 
had  remained  on  board  were  waiting  for  us  in  appi'ehension  of  some 
mishap  having  befallen  us.  It  was  barely  two  hours  after  night  set 
in  when  we  were  all  on  Iward  the  vessel,  where  the  cords  wei-e  re- 
moved from  the  hands  of  Zoraida's  father,  and  the  nai)kin  from  his 
mouth  ;  but  the  renegade  once  more  told  him  not  to  utter  a  word,  or 
they  would  take  his  life.  He,  when  he  saw  his  daughter  there,  began 
to  sigh  piteously,  and  still  more  when  lie  perceived  that  I  held  her 
closely  embraced  and  that  she  lay  quiet  without  resisting  or  com- 
plaining, or  showing  any  reluctance;  nevertheless  he  remained  silent 
lest  they  should  carry  into  effect  the  repeated  threats  the  renegade 
had  addressed  to  him. 

Finding  herself  now  on  board,  and  that  we  were  about  to  give  way 
with  the  oars,  Zoraida,  seeing  her  father  there,  and  the  other  JMoors 
bound,  bade  the  renegade  ask  me  to  do  her  the  favor  of  releasing 
the  Moors  and  setting  her  father  at  liberty,  for  she  would  rather 
drown  herself  in  the  sea  than  suffer  a  father  that  had  loved  her  so 
dearly  to  be  carried  away  caiitive  before  her  eyes  and  on  her  account. 

The  renegade  repeated  this  to  me,  and  I  replied  that  I  was  very 
willing  to  do  so  ;  but  he  replied  that  it  was  not  advisable,  because  if 
they  were  left  there  they  would  at  once  raise  the  country  and  stir  up 
the  city,  and  lead  to  the  despatch  of  swift  cruisers  in  pursuit,  and  our 
being  taken,  by  sea  or  land,  without  any  possibility  of  escape  ;  and 
that  all  that  could  be  done  was  to  set  them  free  on  the  first  Chi'istian 
ground  we  reached.     On  this  point  we  all  agreed ;  and  Zoraida,  to 


352  DON    QUIXOTE. 

whom  it  was  explained,  together  with  the  reasons  that  prevented  us 
from  doing  at  once  wliat  she  desired,  was  satisfied  likewise;  and  then 
in  glad  silence  and  with  cheerful  alacrity  each  of  our  stout  rowers 
took  his  oar,  and  commending  ourselves  to  God  with  all  our  hearts, 
we  began  to  shape  our  course  for  the  island  of  Majorca,  the  nearest 
Christian  land.  Owing,  however,  to  the  Tramontana '  rising  a  little, 
and  the  sea  growing  somewhat  rough,  it  was  impossible  for  us  to 
keep  a  straight  coui'se  for  JNIajorca,  and  we  were  compelled  to  coast 
in  the  direction  of  Oran,  not  without  great  uneasiness  on  our  part 
lest  we  should  be  observed  from  the  town  of  Shershel,  which  lies  on 
that  coast,  not  more  than  sixty  miles  from  Algiers.  Moreover  we 
were  afraid  of  meeting  on  that  course  one  of  the  galliots  that  usually 
come  with  goods  from  Tetuan  ;  although  each  of  us  for  himself  and 
all  of  us  together  felt  confident  that,  if  we  were  to  meet  a  merchant 
galliiit,  so  that  it  Avere  not  a  cruiser,  not  only  should  we  not  be  lost, 
but  that  we  should  take  a  vessel  in  which  we  could  more  safely  ac- 
complish our  voyage.  As  we  pursued  our  course  Zoraida  kept  her 
head  between  my  hands  so  as  not  to  see  lier  father,  and  1  felt  sure 
that  she  was  praying  to  Lela  IMarien  to  help  us. 

We  might  have  made  about  thirty  miles  when  daybreak  found  us 
some  three  musket-shots  off  the  land,  which  seemed  to  us  deserted, 
and  without  any  one  to  see  us.  For  all  that,  however,  by  hard  row- 
ino"  we  put  out  a  little  to  sea,  for  it  was  now  somewhat  calmer,  and 
]ia°  ing  gained  about  two  leagues  the  word  was  given  to  row  by 
batches,  while  we  ate  something,  for  the  vessel  was  well  provided; 
but  the  rowers  said  it  was  not  a  time  to  take  any  rest ;  let  food  be 
served  out  to  those  who  were  not  rowing,  but  they  would  not  leave  their 
oars  on  any  account.  This  was  done,  but  now  a  stiff  breeze  began 
to  blow,  which  obliged  us  to  leave  off  rowing  and  make  sail  at  once 
and  steer  for  Oran,  as  it  was  impossible  to  make  any  other  course. 
All  this  was  done  very  promptly,  and  under  sail  we  ran  more  than 
eigjit  miles  an  hour  without  any  fear,  except  that  of  coming  across 
some  vessel  out  on  a  roving  expedition.  We  gave  the  Moorish 
rowers  some  food,  and  the  renegade  comforted  them  by  telling  them 
that  they  were  not  held  as  captives,  as  fve  should  set  them  free  on  the 
first  opportunity. 

The  same  was  said  to  Zoraida's  father,  who  replied,  "Anything 
else,  O  Christian,  I  might  hope  for  or  think  likely  from  your  generos- 
ity and  good  behavior,  but  do  not  think  me  so  simple  as  to  imagine 
you  will  give  me  my  liberty;  for  you  would  have  never  exposed 
yourselves  to  the  danger  of  depriving  me  of  it  only  to  restore  it  to 
me  so  generously,  especially  as  you  know  who  I  am  and  the  sum 
you  may  expect  to  receive  on  restoring  it ;  and  if  you  will  only 
name  that.  I  here  offer  you  all  you  require  for  myself  and  for  my 
unhappy  daughter  there ;  or  else  for  her  alone,  for  she  is  the  great- 
est and  most  precious  part  of  my  soul." 

As  he  said  this  he  began  to  weep  so  bitterly  that  he  filled  us  all 
with  compassion  and  forced  Zoraida  to  look  at  him,  and  when  she 
saw  him  weeping  she  was  so  moved  that  she  rose  from  my  feet  and 

'  A  wind  from  the  north,  so  called  from  coming  across  the  Alps. 


CHAPTER    XLI.  353 

ran  to  throw  her  arms  round  him,  and  pressing  her  face  to  his,  they 
both  gave  way  to  sucli  an  outburst  of  tears  that  several  of  us  were 
constrained  to  keep  them  company. 

But  when  her  father  saw  her  in  full  dress  and  with  all  her  jewels 
about  her,  he  said  to  her  in  his  own  language,  "  What  means  this, 
my  daugliter?  Last  niglit,  before  this  terrible  misfortune  in  which 
we  are  plunged  befell  us,  I  saw  thee  in  tliy  every-day  and  indoor 
garments ;  and  now,  without  having  had  time  to  attire  thyself,  and 
without  my  bringing  thee  any  joyful  tidings  to  furnish  an  occasion 
for  adorning  and  bedecking  thyself,  I  see  tliee  arrayed  in  the  finest 
attire  it  would  be  in  my  power  to  give  thee  when  fortune  was  most 
kind  to  us.  Answer  me  this;  for  it  causes  me  greater  anxiety  and 
surprise  than  even  this  misfortune  itself." 

The  renegade  interpreted  to  us  what  the  Moor  said  to  liis 
daughter ;  she,  however,  returned  him  no  answer.  But  when  he 
observed  in  one  corner  of  the  vessel  the  little  trunk  in  whicli  she 
used  to  keep  her  jewels,  which  he  well  knew  he  had  left  in  Algieis 
and  had  not  brought  to  the  gai'den,  he  was  still  more  amazed,  and 
asked  her  how  that  trunk  had  come  into  our  hands,  and  what  there 
was  in  it.  To  which  the  renegade,  without  waiting  for  Zoraida  to 
reply,  made  answer,  "  Do  not  trouble  thyself  by  asking  thy  daughter 
Zoraida  so  many  questions,  seiior,  for  the  one  answer  1  will  give 
thee  will  serve  for  all ;  I  would  have  thee  know  that  she  is  a  Chris- 
tian, and  that  it  is  she  who  has  been  the  tile  for  our  chains  and  our 
deliverer  from  captivity.  She  is  here  of  her  own  free  will,  as  glad, 
I  imagine,  to  find  herself  in  this  position  as  he  who  escapes  frt^ni 
darkness  into  the  light,  from  death  to  life,  and  from  suffering  to 
glory." 

"Daughter,  is  this  true,  what  he  says?"  cried  the  Moor. 

"  It  is,"  replied  Zoraida. 

"  That  thou  art  in  truth  a  Christian,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  that 
thou  hast  given  thy  father  into  the  power  of  his  enemies?  " 

To  which  Zoraida  made  answer,  '•  A  Christian  I  am,  but  it  is  not 
I  who  have  placed  thee  in  this  position,  for  it  never  was  my  wish  to 
leave  thee  or  do  thee  harm,  but  only  to  do  good  to  myself." 

"  And  what  good  hast  thou  done  thyself,  daughter  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Ask  thou  that,"  said  she,  *'  of  Lela  Marien,  for  she  can  tell  thee 
better  than  I." 

The  Moor  had  haixlly  heard  these  words  when  with  marvellous 
quickness  he  flung  himself  head-foremost  into  the  sea,  where  no 
doubt  he  would  have  been  drowned  had  not  the  long  and  full  dress 
he  wore  held  him  uj)  for  a  little  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  Zoraida 
cried  aloud  to  us  to  save  him,  and  we  all  hastened  to  help,  aud  seiz- 
ing him  by  his  robe  we  drew  him  in  half-drowned  and  insensible,  at 
which  Zoraida  was  in  such  distress  that  she  wept  over  him  as  jiite- 
ously  and  bitterly  as  though  he  were  already  dead.  We  turned  him 
upon  his  face  and  he  voided  a  great  quantity  of  water,  and  at  the  end 
of  two  hours  came  to  himself.  Meanwhile,  the  wind  having  changed 
we  were  compelled  to  head  for  the  land,  and  ply  our  oars  to  avoid 
being  driven  on  shore  ;  but  it  was  our  good  fortune  to  make  a  cove 
Vol.  1,-23 


354  DON    QUIXOTE. 

that  lies  on  one  side  of  a  small  promontory  or  cape,  called  by  the 
Moors  that  of  the  "  Cava  rumia,"  which  in  our  language  means  "  the 
wicked  Christian  woman  ;  "  for  it  is  a  tradition  among  them  that  La 
Cava,  through  wliom  Spain  was  lost,  lies  buried  at  that  spot ;  "  cava  " 
in  their  language  meaning  "  wicked  woman,"  and  "  rumia"  "  Chris- 
tian ;  "  '  moreover,  they  count  it  unlucky  to  anchor  there  when  neces- 
sity compels  them,  and  they  never  do  so  otherwise.  For  us,  however, 
it  was  not  the  resting-place  of  the  wicked  woman  but  a  haven  of 
safety  for  our  relief,  so  much  had  the  sea  now  got  up.  We  posted  a 
look-out  on  shore,  and  never  let  the  oars  out  of  our  liands,  and  ate 
of  the  stores  the  renegade  had  laid  in,  imiDloring  (iod  and  Our  Lady 
with  all  our  hearts  to  help  and  protect  us,  that  we  might  give  a  happy 
endino"  to  a  beginning  so  prosperous.  At  the  entreaty  of  Zoraida 
orders  wei-e  given  to  set  on  sliore  her  father  and  the  other  Moors  who 
were  still  bound,  for  she  could  not  endure,  nor  could  her  tender 
heart  bear  to  see  her  father  in  bonds  and  her  fellow-countrymen  pris- 
oners before  her  eyes.  We  promised  her  to  do  this  at  the  moment 
of  departure,  for  as  it  was  uninhabited  we  ran  no  risk  in  releasing 
them  at  that  place. 

Our  prayers  were  not  so  far  in  vain  as  to  be  unheard  by  Heaven, 
for  the  wind  immediately  changed  in  our  favor,  and  the  sea  grew 
calm,  inviting  us  once  more  to  resume  our  voyage  with  a  good  heart. 
Seeing  this  we  unbound  the  Moors,  and  one  by  one  j)ut  them  on 
shore,  at  which  they  were  filled  with  amazement ;  but  when  we  came 
to  landZoraida's  father,  who  had  now  completely  recovered  his  senses, 
he  said,  "  Why  is  it,  think  ye.  Christians,  that  this  wicked  woman  is 
rejoiced  at  your  giving  me  my  liberty  ?  Think  ye  it  is  l)ecause  of 
the  affection  she  bears  me?  Nay  verily,  it  is  only  because  of  the 
hindrance  my  presence  offers  to  the  execution  of  her  base  designs. 
And  think  not  that  it  is  her  belief  that  yours  is  better  than  ours  that 
has  led  her  to  change  her  religion ;  it  is  only  because  she  knows  that 
immodesty  is  more  freely  practised  in  your  country  than  in  ours." 
Then  tui-iiiug  to  Zoraida,  while  I  and  another  of  the  Christians  held 
him  fast  by  both  arms,  lest  he  should  do  some  mad  act,  he  said  to 
her,  "Infamous  girl,  misguided  maiden,  whither  in  thy  blindness 
and  madness  art  thou  going  in  the  hands  of  these  dogs,  our  natural 
enemies?  Cursed  be  the  hour  when  I  begot  thee!  Cursed  the  lux- 
ury and  indulgence  in  which  I  reared  thee  ! "  But  seeing  that  he 
was  not  likely  soon  to  cease  I  made  haste  to  put  him  on  shore,  and 
thence  he  continued  his  maledictions  and  lamentations  aloud  ;  calling 
on  Mohammed  to  pray  to  Allah  to  destroy  us,  to  confound  us,  to 
make  an  end  of  us;  and  when,  in  consequence  of  having  made  sail, 
we  could  no  longer  hear  what  he  said  we  could  see  what  he  did  ;  how 
he  plucked  out  his  be;a-d  and  tore  his  hair  anil  lay  writhing  on  the 
ground.  But  once  he  raised  his  voice  to  such  a  -pitch  that  we  were 
able  to  hear  what  he  said.     "  Come  back,  dear  daughter,  come  back 

'  Cervantes  gives  the  popular  name  by  which  the  spot  is  known.  Prop- 
erly it  is"Kiibba  Rumia,"  the  Christian's  tomb;  "that  being  the  name 
given  to  the  curious  circular  structure  about  which  there  has  been  so  much 
discussion  among  French  archaeologists. 


CHAPTER    XLI.  355 

to  shore  ;  I  forgive  thee  all ;  let  those  men  have  the  money,  for  it  is 
theirs  now,  and  come  back  to  comfort  thy  sorrowing  father,  Avho  will 
yield  up  his  life  on  this  barren  strand  it'thon  dost  leave  him." 

All  this  Zoraida  heard,  and  heard  with  sorrow  and  tears,  and  all 
she  could  say  in  answer  was,  "  Allah  grant  that  Lela  JVlarien,  who 
has  made  me  become  a  Christian,  give  thee  comfort  in  thy  sorrow, 
()  my  father.  Allah  knows  that  I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  I  have 
done,  and  that  these  Christians  owe  nothing  to  my  will ;  for  even  had 
I  wished  not  to  accompany  them,  but  remain  at  home,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  me,  so  eagerly  did  my  soul  urge  me  on  to  the 
accomjjlishment  of  this  purpose,  which  I  feel  to  be  as  righteous  as  to 
thee,  dear  father,  it  seems  wicked." 

But  neither  could  her  father  hear  her  nor  we  see  him  when  she 
said  this ;  and  so,  while  I  consoled  Zoraida,  we  turned  our  attention 
to  owY  voyage,  in  which  a  breeze  from  the  right  point  so  favored  us 
that  we  made  sure  of  finding  ourselves  off  the  coast  of  Spain  on  the 
morrow  by  daybreak.  But,  as  good  seldom  or  never  comes  pure 
and  unmixed,  without  being  attended  or  followed  by  some  disturb- 
ing evil  that  gives  a  shock  to  it,  our.  fortune,  or  perhaps  the  curses 
which  the  Moor  had  hurled  at  his  daughter  (for  whatever  kind  of 
father  they  may  come  from  these  ai-e  always  to  be  dreaded),  brought 
it  about  that  when  we  were  now  in  mid-sea,  and  the  night  about 
three  hours  spent,  as  we  were  running  with  all  sail  set  and  oars 
lashed,  for  the  favoring  breeze  saved  us  the  trouble  of  using  them, 
we  saw  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  shone  brilliantly,  a  square- 
rigged  vessel  in  full  sail  close  to  us,  luffing  up  and  standing  across 
our  course,  and  so  close  that  we  had  to  strike  sail  to  avoid  running 
foul  of  her,  while  they  too  put  the  helm  hard  up  to  let  us  pass. 
They  came  to  the  side  of  the  ship  to  ask  who  we  were,  whither  we 
were  bound,  and  whence  we  came,  but  as  they  asked  this  in  French 
out  renegade  said,  "  Let  no  one  answer,  for  no  doubt  these  are 
French  corsairs  who  plunder  all  comers."  Acting  on  this  warning 
no  one  answered  a  word,  but  after  we  had  gone  a  little  ahead,  and 
tlie  vessel  was  now  lying  to  leeward,  suddenly  they  fired  two  guns, 
and  apparently  both  loaded  with  chainshot,  for  with  one  they  cut  our 
mast  in  half  and  brought  down  both  it  and  the  sail  into  the  sea,  and 
the  other,  discharged  at  the  same  moment,  sent  a  ball  into  our  vessel 
amidships,  staving  her  in  comi^letely,  but  without  doing  any  further 
damage.  We,  however,  finding  oui'selves  sinking  began  to  shout 
for  help  and  call  upon  those  in  the  ship  ti)  pick  us  up  as  we  were 
beginning  to  fill.  They  then  lay  to,  and  lowering  a  skiff  or  boat,  as 
many  as  a  dozen  Frenchmen,  well  armed  with  matchlocks,  and  their 
matches  burning,  got  into  it  and  came  alongside ;  and  seeing  how 
few  we  were,  and  that  our  vessel  was  going  down,  they  took  us  in, 
telling  us  that  this  had  come  to  us  through  our  incivility  in  not  giving 
them  an  answer.  Our  renegade  took  the  trunk  containing  Zoraida's 
wealth  and  dropped  it  into  the  sea  without  any  one  perceiving  what 
he  did.  In  siiort  we  went  on  board  with  the  Frenchmen,  who,  after 
having  ascertained  all  they  wanted  to  know  about  us,  rifled  us  of 
everything  we  had,  as  if  they  had  been  our  bitterest  enemies,  and 


356  DON    QUIXOTE. 

from  Zoraida  they  took  ev^en  the  anklets  she  wore  on  her  feet ;  but 
the  distress  they  caused  her  did  not  distress  me  so  much  as  the  fear 
I  was  in  that  from  robbing  her  of  lier  rich  and  precious  jewels  they 
would  proceed  to  rob  her  of  the  most  precious  jewel  that  she  valued 
more  than  all.  The  desires,  however,  of  those  people  do  not  go 
beyond  money,  but  of  that  their  covetousness  is  insatiable,  and  on 
this  occasion  it  was  carried  to  such  a  pitch  that  they  would  have 
taken  even  the  clothes  we  wore  as  captives  if  tliey  had  been  worth 
anything  to  them.  It  was  the  advice  of  some  of  them  to  throw  us 
all  into  the  sea  wrapped  up  in  a  sail ;  for  their  jjurpose  was  to  trade 
at  some  of  the  ports  of  Spain,  giving  themselves  out  as  Bretons, 
and  if  they  brought  us  alive  they  would  be  punislied  as  soon  as  the 
robbery  was  discovered;  but  the  captain  (who  was  the  one  who  had 
i:)lundered  my  beloved  Zoraida)  said  he  was  satisfied  with  the  prize 
he  had  got,  and  that  he  would  not  touch  at  any  Spanish  port,  but 
pass  the  Straits  of  (Gibraltar  hy  night,  or  as  best  he  could,  and  make 
for  Rochelle,  from  which  he  had  sailed.  So  they  agreed  by  common 
consent  to  give  us  the  skiff  belojiging  to  their  ship  and  all  we  re- 
(juired  for  the  short  voyage  that  remained  to  us,  and  this  they  did 
the  next  day  on  coming  in  sight  of  the  Spanish  coast,  with  which, 
and  the  joy  we  felt,  all  our  sufferings  and  miseries  were  as  com- 
pletely forgotten  as  if  they  had  never  been  endured  by  us,  such  is 
the  delight  of  I'ecovering  lost  liberty. 

It  may  have  been  about  mid-day  when  they  placed  us  in  the  boat, 
giving  us  two  kegs  of  water  and  some  biscuit ;  and  the  captain, 
moved  by  I  know  not  what  compassion,  as  the  lovely  Zoraida  was 
about  to  embark  gave  her  some  forty  gold  crowns,  and  would  not 
permit  his  men  to  take  from  her  those  same  garments  which  she  has 
on  now.  AVe  got  into  the  boat,  returning  them  thanks  for  their 
kindness  to  us,  and  showing  ourselves  grateful  rather  than  indig- 
nant. They  stood  out  to  sea,  steering  for  the  straits ;  we,  without 
looking  to  any  comjjass  save  the  land  we  had  before  us,  set  our- 
selves to  row  with  such  energy  that  by  sunset  we  were  so  near  that 
we  might  easily,  we  thought,  land  before  the  night  was  far  ad- 
vanced. But  as  the  moon  did  not  show  that  night,  and  the  sky  was 
clouded,  and  as  we  knew  not  whereabouts  we  were,  it  did  not  seem 
to  us  a  prudent  thing  to  make  for  the  shore,  as  several  of  us  advised, 
saying  we  ought  to  run  ourselves  ashore  even  if  it  were  on  rocks 
and  far  from  any  habitation,  for  in  this  way  we  should  be  relieved 
from  the  apprehensions  we  naturally  felt  of  the  prowling  vessels  of 
the  Tetuan  corsairs,  who  leave  Barbary  at  nightfall  and  are  on  the 
Spanish  coast  by  daybreak,  where  they  commonly  take  some  prize, 
and  then  go  home  to  sleep  in  tiieir  own  houses.  But  of  the  conflict- 
ing counsels  the  one  which  was  adopted  was  that  we  should  ap- 
I^roach  gradually,  and  land  where  we  could  if  the  sea  were  calm 
enough  to  permit  us.  This  was  done,  and  a  little  before  midnight 
we  drew  near  to  the  foot  of  a  huge  and  lofty  mountain,'  not  so  close 
to  the  sea  but  that  it  left  a  narrow  space  on  which  to  land  conven- 

^  The  Sierra  Tejeda,  to  the  south  of  Albania,  is  apparently  that  which 
Cervantes  means. 


CHAPTER    XL  I.  357 

iently.  We  ran  oui-  boat  up  on  the  sand,  and  all  sprang  out  and 
kissed  the  ground,  and  with  tears- of  joyful  satisfaction  returned 
thanks  to  (Jod  our  J^ord  for  all  his  incomparable  goodness  to  us  on  our 
voyage.  We  took  out  of  the  boat  the  provisions  it  contained,  and  drew 
it  up  on  the  shore,  and  then  climbed  a  long  way  up  the  mountain,  for 
even  there  we  could  not  feel  easy  in  our  hearts,  or  thoroughly  \yev- 
suade  ouselves  that  it  was  Christian  soil  that  was  now  under  our 
feet. 

The  dawn  came,  more  slowly,  I  think,  than  we  could  have  wished  ; 
we  completed  the  ascent  in  oi'der  to  see  if  from  the  summit  any  habi- 
tation or  any  shepherd's  luits  could  be  discovered,  but  strain  our  eyes 
as  we  might,  neither  dwelling,  nor  human  being,  nor  path  nor  road 
could  we  perceive.  However,  we  determined  to  push  on  farther,  as 
it  could  not  but  be  that  ere  long  we  must  see  some  one  who  could 
tell  us  where  we  were.  But  what  distressed  me  most  was  to  see  7m- 
raida  goin<r  on  foot  over  that  rough  ground  ;  for  though  I  once  car- 
ried  her  on  my  shoulders,  she  was  more  wearied  by  my  wearmess 
than  rested  by  the  rest;  and  so  she  would  never  again  allow  me  to 
undergo  the  exertion,  and  went  on  very  patiently  and  cheerfully, 
while  lied  her  by  the  hand.  We  had  gone  rather  less  than  a  quarter 
of  a  league  when  the  sound  of  a  little  bell  fell  on  our  ears,  a  clear 
proof  that  there  were  flocks  hard  by,  and  looking  about  carefully  to 
see  if  any  were  within  view,  we  observed  a  young  shepherd  tran- 
((uilly  and  unsuspiciously  trimming  a  stick  with  his  knife,  at  the  foot 
of  a  cork  tree.  We  called  to  him,  and  he,  raising  his  head,  sprang 
iiimljly  to  his  feet,  for,  as  we  afterwards  learned,  the  first  who  pre- 
sented themselves  to  his  sight  were  the  renegade  and  Zoraida,  and 
seeing  them  in  ^loorish  dress  he  imagined  that  all  the  ]Moors  of  Bar- 
bary  were  upon  him ;  and  plunging  with  marvellous  swiftness  mto 
the  thicket  in  front  of  him,  he  began  to  raise  a  prodigious  outcry,  ex- 
claiming, "The  Moors  —  the  Moors  have  landed!"  We  were  all 
thrown  into  perplexity  by  these  cries,  not  knowing  what  to  do ;  but 
reflecting  that  the  shouts  of  the  shepherd  would  raise  the  country 
and  that  the  mounted  coast-guard  would  come  at  once  to  see  what 
was  the  matter,  we  agreed  that  t  lie  renegade  must  strip  oft"  his  Turk- 
ish garments  and  put  on  a  captive's  jacket  or  coat,  which  one  of  our 
2)art3'  gave  him  at  once,  though  he  himself  was  reduced  to  his  shirt; 
and  so  commending  ourselves  to  God,  we  followed  the  same  road 
which  we  saw  the  shepherd  take,  expecting  every  moment  that  the 
coast-guard  would  be  down  upon  us.  Nor  did  our  expectation  de- 
ceive us,  for  two  hours  had  not  passed  when,  coming  out  of  the  brush- 
wood into  the  open  ground,  we  perceived  some  fifty  mounted  men 
swiftly  approaching  us  at  a  hand-gallop.  As  soon  as  we  saw  them  we 
stood  still,  waiting  for  them  ;  but  as  they  came  close  and,  instead  of  the 
Moors  they  were  in  quest  of,  saw  a  set  of  poor  Christians,  they  were 
taken  aback,  and  one  of  them  asked  if  it  could  be  we  who  were  the 
cause  of  the  shepherd  having  raised  the  call  to  arras.  I  said  yes,  and 
as  I  was  about  to  explain  to  liim  what  had  occurred,  and  whence  we 
came  and  who  we  were,  one  of  the  Christians  of  our  i)arty  recog- 
nized the  hoi'seman  who  had  put  the  question  to  us,  and  before  I 


358  DON    QUIXOTE. 

could  say  anything  moi'e  he  exdaimed,  "  Thanks  be  to  God,  sms,  for 
bringing  ns  to  such  good  quarters ;  for,  if  I  do  not  deceive  myself, 
the  ground  we  stand  on  is  that  of  Velez  ]Malaga  ;  ^  unless,  indeed,  all 
my  years  of  captivity  have  made  me  unable  to  recollect  that  you, 
seiior,  who  ask  who  we  are,  are  Pedro  de  ikistamente,  my  uncle." 

The  Christian  captive  had  hardly  uttered  these  words,  when  the 
horseman  threw  himself  oft'  his  horse,  and  ran  to  embrace  the  young 
man,  crying,  "  Nejjhew  of  my  soul  and  life  I  I  recognize  thee  now  ; 
and  long  have  I  mourned  thee  as  dead,  I,  and  my  sister,  thy  mother, 
and  all  thy  kin  that  are  still  alive,  and  w^iom  God  has  been  pleased 
to  preserve  that  they  may  enjoy  the  happiness  of  seeing  thee.  We 
knew  long  since  that  thou  Avert  in  Algiers,  and  from  the  aijpearance 
of  thy  garments  and  those  of  all  this  com2)any,  I  conclude  that  ye 
have  had  a  miraculous  restoration  to  liberty." 

"  It  is  true,"'  replied  the  young  man,  "  and  by-and-by  we  will  tell 
you  all." 

As  soon  as  tlie  horsemen  understood  that  we  were  Christian  cap- 
tives, they  dismounted  from  their  horses,  and  each  oft'ered  his  to 
carry  us  to  the  city  of  Velez  Malaga,  which  was  a  league  and  a  half 
distant.  Some  of  them  went  to  bring  the  boat  to  the  city,  we  having 
told  them  where  we  had  left  it;  others  took  us  up  behind  them,  and 
Zoraida  was  placed  on  the  horse  of  the  young  man's  uncle.  The 
whole  town  came  out  to  meet  us,  for  they  had  by  this  time  heard  of 
our  arrival  from  one  who  had  gone  on  in  advance.  They  were  not 
astonished  to  see  liberated  captives  or  Moorish  captives,  for  people 
on  that  coast  are  vvell  used  to  see  both  one  and  the  other ;  but  they 
were  astonished  at  the  beauty  of  Zoraida,  which  was  just  then  height- 
ened, as  well  by  the  exertion  of  travelling  as  by  joy  at  finding  herself 
on  Christian  soil,  and  relieved  of  all  fear  of  being  lost;  for  this  had 
brought  su(-h  a  glow  ui)on  her  face,  that,  unless  my  affection  for  her 
were  deceiving  me,  I  would  ventufe  to  say  that  there  was  not  a  more 
beautiful  creature  in  the  world  —  at  least,  that  I  had  ever  seen. 

We  went  straight  to  the  church  to  return  thanks  to  God  for  the 
mercies  we  ha<i  received,  and  when  Zoraida  entered  it  she  said  there 
were  faces  there  like  Lela  IMarien's.  We  told  her  they  were  her 
images  ;  and  as  well  as  he  could  the  renegade  explained  to  her  what 
they  meant,  that  she  might  adore  them  as  if  each  of  them  were  the 
very  same  Lela  Marien  that  had  spoken  to  her ;  and  she,  having  great 
intelligence  and  a  (juick  and  clear  instinct,  undei'stood  at  once  all  he 
said  to  her  about  them.  Thence  they  took  us  away  and  distributed 
us  all  in  difterent  houses  in  the  town  ;  but  as  for  the  renegade,  Zoraida, 
and  myself,  the  Christian  who  came  with  us  brought  us  to  the  house  of 
his  parents,  who  had  a  fair  share  of  the  gifts  of  fortune,  and  treated 
us  with  as  much  kindness  as  they  did  their  own  son. 

We  remained  six  days  in  Velez,  at  the  end  oi:  which  the  renegade, 
having  informed  himself  of  all  that  was  re(iuisite  for  him  to  do, 
set  out  for  the  city  of  Granada  to  restore  himself  to  the  sacred  bosom 
of  the  Church  through  the  medium  of  the  Holy  Inquisition.  The  other 

'  About  eighteen  miles  to  the  east  of  Malaga,  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  coast. 


CHAPTER    XLTT.  359 

released  cajitives  took  their  departures,  each  the  way  that  seemed 
best  to  him,  and  Zoraida  and  I  were  left  alone,  with  nothino:  more 
than  the  crowns  which  the  courtesy  ot  tiie  Frenchman  had  bestowed 
upon  Zoraida,  out  of  which  1  bouglit  the  beast  on  which  she  i"ides ; 
and,  I  for  tlie  present  attending  her  as  her  father  and  squire  and  not 
as  her  husband,  we  are  now  going  to  ascertain  if  my  father  is  living, 
or  if  any  of  my  brothers  has  had  better  fortune  than  mine  has  been  ; 
though  as  Heaven  has  made  me  the  comj^anion  of  Zoraida,  I  think 
no  other  lot  could  be  assigned  to  me,  however  hapj^y,  that  I  would 
rather  have.  The  patience  with  which  she  endures  the  hardshi[)s 
that  poverty  brings  with  it,  and  the  eagerness  she  shows  to  Ijccome  a 
Christian,  are  such  that  they  fill  me  with  admiration,  and  bind  me  to 
serve  her  all  my  life ;  though  the  hajjpiness  I  feel  in  seeing  myself 
hers,  and  her  mine,  is  disturbed  and  marred  by  not  knowing  whether 
L  shall  find  any  corner  to  shelter  lier  in  my  own  country,  or  whether 
time  and  death  may  not  have  made  such  changes  in  the  fortimes  and 
lives  of  my  father  and  brothers,  that  I  shall  hardly  find  any  one  who 
knows  me,  if  they  are  not  to  be  found. 

I  have  no  more  of  my  story  to  tell  you,  gentlemen  ;  whether  it  he 
an  interesting  or  a  curious  one  let  your  better  judgments  decide ;  all 
I  can  say  is  I  would  gladly  have  told  it  to  you  more  briefly ;  although 
my  fear  of  wearying  you  has  made  me  leave  out  more  than  one  cir- 
cumstance. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

WHICH    TREATS   OF    WHAT    FURTHER    TOOK    PLACE    IN    THE    INN, 
AND    OF    SEVERAL    OTHER    THINGS    WORTH    KNOWING. 

With  these  words  the  captive  held  his  peace,  and  Don  Fer- 
nando said  to  him,  "  In  truth,  captain,  the  manner  in  Avhiehyou 
have  rehited  this  remarkable  adventure  has  been  such  as  befitted 
the  novelty  and  strangeness  of  the  matter.  The  whole  story  is 
curious  and  imcommon,  and  abounds  witli  incidents  that  fill  the 
hearers  with  wonder  and  astonishment ;  and  so  great  is  tlie 
pleasure  we  have  found  in  listening  to  it  that  we  should  be 
glad  if  it  were  to  begin  again,  even  though  to-morrow  were  to 
find  us  still  o('CU})ied  witli  the  same  tale."  And  while  he  said 
this  Cardenio  and  the  rest  of  them  offered  to  be  of  service  to 
him  in  any  way  that  lay  in  their  power,  and  in  words  and  lan- 
guage so  kindly  and  sincere  that  the  captain  was  much  grati- 
fied by  their  good-will.  In  particular  Don  Fernando  offered,  if 
he  would  go  back  with  him,  to  get  his  brother  the  marquis  to 
become  godfather  at  the  baptism  of  Zoraida,  and  on  his  own 
part  to  provide  him  Avith  the  means  of  making  his  appearance 


860  DON    QUIXOTE. 

in  his  own  country  witli  the  credit  and  comfort  he  was  entitled 
to.  For  all  this  the  captive  returned  thanks  very  courteously, 
but  would  not  accept  any  of  their  generous  offers. 

By  this  time  night  closed  in,  and  as  it  did,  there  came  up  to. 
the  inn  a  coach  attended  by  some  men  on  horseback,  who  de- 
manded accommodation  ;  to  which  the  landlady  replied  that 
there  was  not  a  hand's  breadth  of  the  whole  inn  unoccupied. 

''  Still,  for  all  that,"  said  one  of  those  who  had  entered  on 
horseback,  ''  room  must  be  found  for  his  lordship  the  judge 
here." 

At  this  name  the  landlady  was  taken  aback,  and  said, "  Senor, 
the  fact  is  I  have  no  beds  ;  but  if  his  lordship  the  judge  carries 
one  with  him,  as  no  doubt  he  does,  let  him  come  in  and  wel- 
come ;  for  my  husband  and  I  will  give  up  our  room  to  accom- 
modate his  worship." 

"  Very  good,  so  be  it,"  said  the  squire  ;  but  in  the  mean- 
time a  man  had  got  out  of  the  coach  whose  dress  indicated  at 
a  glance  the  office  and  post  he  held,  for  the  long  robe  with 
ruttted  sleeves  that  he  wore  showed  that  he  was,  as  his  servant 
said,  a  ju^dge  of  appeal.  He  led  by  the  hand  a  yoimg  girl  in  a 
travelling  dress,  apparently  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  of 
such  a  high-bred  air,  so  beautiful  and  so  graceful,  that  all  were 
iilled  with  admiration  when  she  made  her  appearance,  and  but 
for  having  seen  Dorothea,  Luscinda,  and  Zoraida,  who  were 
there  in  the  inn,  they  would  have  fancied  that  a  beauty  like 
#that  of  this  maiden's  would  have  been  hard  to  find.  Don 
Quixote  was  present  at  the  entrance  of  the  judge  with  the 
young  lady,  and  as  soon  as  he  saw  him  he  said,  "  Your  worship 
may  with  confidence  enter  and  take  your  ease  in  this  castle ; 
for  though  the  accommodation  be  scanty  and  poor,  there  are  no 
quarters  so  cramped  or  inconvenient  that  they  can  not  make 
room  for  arms  and  letters ;  above  all  if  arms  and  letters  have 
beauty  for  a  guide  and  leader,  as  letters  represented  by  your 
worship  have  in  this  fair  maiden,  to  whom  not  only  ought 
castles  to  throAV  themselves  open  and  yield  themselves  up,  but 
rocks  should  rend  themselves  asunder  and  mountains  divide 
and  bow  themselves  down  to  give  her  a  reception.  Enter, 
your  worship,  I  say,  into  this  paradise,  for  here  you  will  find 
stars  and  suns  to  accompany  the  heaven  your  worship  brings 
with  you ;  here  you  will  find  arms  in  their  supreme  excellence, 
and  beauty  in  its  highest  perfection." 

The  judge  was  struck  with  amazement  at  the  language  of 


MY    LORD    JUDGE  AND    DON    QUIXOTE.     Vol.1.      Page  360. 


CHAPTER    XLII.  361 

Don  Quixote,  whom  he  scrutinized  very  carefully,  no  less  as- 
tonished by  his  figure  than  by  his  talk  ;  and  before  he  could 
find  words  to  answer  him  he  had  a  fresh  surprise,  when  he  saw 
opposite  to  him  Luscinda,  Dorothea,  and  Zoraida,  who,  having 
heard  of  the  new  guests  and  of  the  beauty  of  the  young  lady, 
had  come  to  see  her  and  welcome  her  ;  Don  Fernando,  Cardenio, 
and  the  curate,  however,  greeted  him  in  a  more  intelligible  and 
polished  style.  In  short,  the  judge  made  his  entrance  in  a 
state  of  bewilderment,  as  well  with  what  he  saw  as  what  he 
heard,  and  the  fair  ladies  of  the  inn  gave  the  fair  damsel  a 
cordial  welcome.  On  the  whole  he  could  perceive  that  all  who 
were  there  were  people  of  qualit}^ ;  but  with  the  figure,  coun- 
tenance, and  bearing  of  Don  Quixote  he  was  at  his  wits'  end  ; 
and  all  civilities  having  been  exchanged,  and  the  accommoda- 
tion of  the  inn  inquired  into,  it  was  settled,  as  it  had  been 
before  settled,  that  all  the  women  should  retire  to  the  garret 
that  has  been  already  mentioned,  and  that  the  men  should 
remain  outside  as  if  to  guard  them ;  the  ju.dge,  therefore,  was 
very  well  pleased  to  allow  his  daughter,  for  such  the  damsel 
was,  to  go  with  the  ladies,  which  she  did  very  willingly ;  and 
with  part  of  the  host's  narrow  bed  and  half  of  what  the  judge 
had  brought  with  him  they  made  a  more  comfortable  arrange- 
ment for  the  night  than  they  had  expected. 

The  captive,  whose  heart  had  leaped  within  him  the  instant 
he  saw  the  judge,  telling  him  somehow  that  this  was  his 
brother,  asked  one  of  the  servants  who  accompanied  him  what 
his  name  was,  and  whether  he  knew  from  what  part  of  the 
country  he  came.  The  servants  replied  that  he  was  called  the 
Licentiate  Juan  Perez  de  Viedma,  and  that  he  had  heard  it 
said  he  came  from  a  village  in  the  mountains  of  Leon.  From 
this  statement,  and  what  he  himself  had  seen,  he  felt  con- 
vinced that  this  was  his  brother  who  had  adopted  letters  by 
his  father's  advice ;  and  excited  and  rejoiced,  he  called  Don 
Fernando  and  Cardenio  and  the  curate  aside,  and  told  them 
how  the  matter  stood,  assuring  them  that  the  judge  was  his 
brother.  The  servant  had  further  informed  him  that  he  was 
now  going  to  the  Indies  with  the  appointment  of  judge  of  the 
Supreme  Court  of  Mexico  ;  and  he  had  learned,  likewise,  that 
the  young  lady  was  his  daughter,  whose  mother  had  died  in 
giving  birth  to  her,  and  that  he  was  very  rich  in  consequence 
of  the  dowry  left  to  him  with  the  daughter.  He  asked  their 
advice  as  to  Avhat  mea,ns  he  should  adopt  to  make  himself 


362  DON    QUIXOTE. 

known,  or  to  ascertain  beforehand  whether,  when  he  had  made 
himself  known,  his  brother,  seeing  him  so  poor,  woukl  be 
ashamed  of  him,  or  wonld  receive  him  with  a  warm  heart. 

"  Leave  it  to  me  to  find  out  that,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  though 
there  is  no  reason  for  supposing,  captain,  that  you  will  not  be 
kindly  received,  because  the  worth  and  wisdom  that  your 
brother's  bearing  shows  him  to  possess  do  not  make  it  likely 
that  he  will  prove  haughty  or  insensible,  or  that  he  will  not 
know  how  to  estimate  the  accidents  of  fortune  at  their  proper 
value.  " 

"Still,  "  said  the  captain,  "  I  would  not  make  myself  known 
abruptly,  but  in  some  indirect  way.  " 

"  I  have  told  you  already,  "  said  the  curate,  "  that  I  will 
manage  it  in  a  way  to  satisfy  us  all.  " 

By  this  time  supper  was  ready,  and  they  all  took  their  seats 
at  the  table,  except  the  captive,  and  the  ladies,  who  supped  by 
themselves  in  their  own  room.^  In  the  middle  of  supper  the 
curate  said,  "  I  had  a  comrade  of  your  worship's  name,  Senor 
Judge,  in  Constantinople,  where  I  was  a  captive  for  several 
years,  and  the  same  comrade  was  one  of  the  stoutest  soldiers 
and  captains  in  the  whole  Spanish  infantry ;  but  he  had  as 
large  a  share  of  misfortune  as  he  had  of  gallantry  and  cour- 
age." 

"  And  how  was  the  captain  called,  senor  ?  "  asked  the  judge. 

"  He  was  called  Ruy  Perez  de  Viedma,"  replied  the  curate, 
*'  and  he  was  born  in  a  village  in  the  mountains  of  Leon ;  and 
he  mentioned  a  circumstance  connected  with  his  father  and  his 
brothers  which,  had  it  not  been  told  me  by  so  truthful  a  man  as 
he  was,  I  should  have  set  down  as  one  of  those  fables  the  old 
women  tell  over  the  fire  in  winter  ;  for  he  said  his  father  had 
divided  his  property  among  his  three  sons  and  had  addressed 
words  of  advice  to  them  sounder  than  any  of  Cato's.  But  I 
can  say  this  much,  that  the  choice  he  made  of  going  to  the  wars 
was  attended  with  such  success,  that  by  his  gallant  conduct  and 
courage,  and  without  any  help  save  his  own  merit,  he  rose  in  a 
few  years  to  be  captain  of  infantry,  and  to  see  himself  on  the 
high-road  and  in  position  to  be  given  the  command  of  a  corps 
before  long;  but  Fortune  was  against  him,  for  where  he  might 
have  expected  her  favor  he  lost  it,  and  with  it  his  liberty,  on 
that  glorious  day  Avhen  so  many  recovered  theirs,  at  the  battle 
of  Lepanto.     I  lost  mine  at  the  Goletta,  and  after  a  variety 

'  Cervantes  apparently  forgets  that  they  had  supped  already. 


CHAPTER    XLII.  363 

of  adventnres  we  found  ourselves  comrades  at  Constantinople. 
Thence  we  went  to  Algiers,  where  we  met  with  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  adventures  that  ever  befell  any  one  in  this  world." 

Here  the  curate  went  on  to  relate  briefly  his  brother's  advent- 
ure with  Zoraida  ;  to  all  which  the  judge  gave  such  an  attentive 
hearing  as  he  had  never  yet  given  to  any  cause  he  heard. ^  The 
curate,  however,  only  went  so  far  as  to  describe  how  the  French- 
men plundered  those  who  were  in  the  boat,  and  the  poverty  and 
distress  in  which  his  comrade  and  the  fair  Moor  were  left ;  of 
whom  he  said  he  had  not  been  able  to  learn  what  became  of 
them,  or  whether  they  had  reached  Spain,  or  been  carried  to 
France  by  the  Frenchmen. 

The  captain,  standing  a  little  to  one  side,  was  listening  to  all 
the  curate  said,  and  watching  every  movement  of  his  bi'other, 
who,  as  soon  as  he  perceived  the  curate  had  made  an  end  of  his 
story,  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  said  with  his  eyes  full  of  tears,  "  ( )h, 
seiior,  if  you  only  knew  what  news  you  have  g•i^'en  me  and  how 
it  comes  home  to  me,  making  me  show  how  I  feel  it  ^^'\H\  these 
tears  that  spring  from  my  eyes  in  spite  of  all  my  worldly  Avis- 
dom  and  self-restraint !  That  brave  captain  that  you  speak  of 
is  my  eldest  brother,  who,  being  of  a  bolder  and  loftier  mind 
than  my  other  brother  or  myself,  chose  the  honorable  and  worthy 
calling  of  arms,  Avhich  was  one  of  the  three  careers  our  father 
proposed  to  us,  as  your  comrade  mentioned  in  that  fable  you 
thought  he  was  telling  you.  I  followed  that  of  letters,  in 
which  God  and  my  own  exertions  have  raised  me  to  the  posi- 
tion in  which  yon  see  me.  My  second  brother  is  in  Peru,  so 
wealthy  that  with  what  he  has  sent  to  my  father  and  to  me 
he  has  fully  repaid  the  portion  he  took  with  him,  and  has  even, 
furnished  my  father's  hands  with  the  means  of  gratifying  his 
natural  generosity,  while  I  too  have  been  enabled  to  pursue  my 
studies  in  a  more  becoming  and  creditable  fashion,  and  so  to 
attain  my  present  standing.  My  father  is  still  alive,  though 
dying  with  anxiety  to  hear  of  his  eldest  son,  and  he  prays  God 
unceasingly  that  death  may  not  close  his  eyes  until  he  has 
looked  upon  those  of  his  son ;  but  with  regard  to  him  what  sur- 
prises me  is,  that  having  so  much  common  sense  as  he  had,  he 
should  4iave  neglected  to  give  any  intelligence  about  himself, 

1  If  so,  the  judge's  views  of  the  vahie  of  evidence  were  peculiar.  How 
could  the  curate,  for  instance,  have  known  that  the  Frenchmen  robbed  liis 
friend,  if  he  had  never  been  able  to  learn  whether  he  reached  Spain  or 
had  been  carried  otf  to  France? 


364  DON    QUIXOTE. 

either  in  Ms  troubles  and  sufferings,  or  in  his  prosperity,  for  if 
his  father  or  any  of  us  had  known  of  his  condition  he  need  not 
have  waited  for  that  miracle  of  the  reed  to  obtain  his  ransom ; 
but  what  now  disquiets  me  is  the  uncertainty  whether  those 
Frenchmen  may  have  restored  him  to  liberty,  or  murdered  him 
to  hide  the  robbery.  All  this  will  make  me  continue  my  jour- 
ney, not  with  the  satisfaction  in  which  I  began  it,  but  in  the 
deepest  melancholy  and  sadness.  Oh  dear  brother  !  that  I  only 
knew  where  thou  art  now,  and  I  would  hasten  to  seek  thee  out 
and  deliver  thee  from  thy  sufferings,  though  it  were  to  cost 
me  suffering  myself  !  Oh  that  I  could  bring  news  to  our  old 
father  that  thou  art  alive,  even  wert  thou  in  the  deepest  dun- 
geon of  Barbary  ;  for  his  wealth  and  my  brother's  and  mine 
would  rescue  thee  thence  !  Oh  beautiful  and  generous  Zoraida, 
that  I  could  repay  thy  goodness  to  a  brother !  That  I  could 
be  ])resent  at  the  new  birth  of  thy  soul,  and  at  thy  bridal  that 
would  give  us  all  such  happiness  ! " 

All  this  and  more  the  judge  uttered  with  such  deep  emotion 
at  the  news  he  had  received  of  his  brother  that  all  who  heard 
him  shared  in  it,  showing  their  sympathy  with  his  sorrow. 
The  curate,  seeing,  then,  how  well  he  had  succeeded  in  carrying 
out  his  purpose  and  the  captain's  wishes,  had  no  desire  to  keep 
them  unhappy  any  longer,  so  he  rose  from  the  table  arid  going 
into  the  room  where  Zoraida  was  he  took  her  by  the  hand, 
Luscinda,  Dorothea,  and  the  judge's  daughter  following  her. 
The  captain  was  waiting  to  see  what  the  curate  would  do,  when 
the  latter,  taking  him  with  the  other  hand,  advanced  with  both 
of  them  to  where  the  judge  and  the  others  were,  and  said, 
"  Let  your  tears  cease  to  flow,  senor  judge,  and  the  wish  of 
your  heart  be  gratified  as  fully  as  you  could  desire,  for  you  have 
before  you  your  worthy  brother  and  your  good  sister-in-law. 
He  whom  you  see  here  is  the  Captain  Viednia,  and  this  is  the 
fair  Moor  who  has  been  so  good  to  him.  The  Frenchmen  I 
told  you  of  have  reduced  them  to  the  state  of  poverty  you  see 
that  you  may  show  the  generosity  of  your  kind  heart." 

The  captain  ran  to  embrace  his  brother,  who  placed  both 
hands  on  his  breast  so  as  to  have  a  good  look  at  him,  holding 
him  a  little  way  off ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  fully  recognized  him 
he  clasped  him  in  his  arms  so  closely,  shedding  such  tears  of 
heartfelt  joy,  that  most  of  those  present  could  not  but  join  in 
them.  The  words  the  brothers  exchanged,  the  emotion  they 
showed  can  scarcely  be  imagined,  I  fancy,  miich  less  put  down 


CHAPTER    XLTI.  365 

in  writing.  They  told  each  other  in  a  few  words  the  events  of 
their  lives  ;  they  showed  the  true  affection  of  brothers  in  all  its 
strength  ;  then  the  judge  embraced  Zoraida,  putting  all  he 
possessed  at  her  disposal ;  then  he  made  his  daughter  embrace 
her,  and  the  fair  Christian  and  the  lovely  ]\Ioor  drew  fresh  tears 
from  every  eye.  And  there  was  Don  Quixote  observing  all  these 
strange  proceedings  attentively  without  uttering  a  word,  and 
attributing  the  whole  to  chimeras  of  knight-errantry.  Then 
they  agreed  that  the  captain  and  Zoraida  should  return  with 
his  brother  to  Seville,  and  send  news  to  his  father  of  his  having 
been  delivered  and  found,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  come  and  be 
present  at  the  marriage  and  baptism  of  Zoraida,  for  it  was 
impossible  for  the  judge  to  put  oft'  his  journey,  as  he  was 
informed  that  in  a  month  from  that  time  the  fleet  was  to  sail 
from  Seville  for  New  Spain,  and  to  miss  the  passage  would 
have  been  a  great  inconvenience  to  him.  In  short,  everybody 
was  well  pleased  and  glad  at  the  captive's  good  fortune  ;  and 
as  now  almost  two-thirds  of  the  night  were  past  they  resolved 
to  retire  to  rest  for  the  remainder  of  it.  Don  Quixote  offered 
to  mount  guard  over  the  castle  lest  they  should  be  attacked  by 
some  giant  or  other  malevolent  scoundrel,  covetous  of  the 
great  treasure  of  beauty  the  castle  contained.  Those  who 
understood  him  returned  him  thanks  for  this  service,  and  they 
gave  the  judge  an  account  of  his  extraordinary  humor,  with 
which  he  was  not  a  little  amused.  Sancho  Panza  alone  was 
fuming  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour  for  retirement  to  rest ;  and 
he  of  all  Avas  the  one  that  made  himself  most  comfortable,  as  he 
stretched  himself  on  the  trappings  of  his  ass,  which,  as  will  be 
told  farther  on,  cost  him  so  dear. 

The  ladies,  then,  having  retired  to  their  chamber,  and  the 
others  having  disposed  themselves  with  as  little  discomfort  as 
they  could,  Don  Quixote  sallied  out  of  the  inn  to  act  as  sentinel 
of  the  castle  as  he  had  promised.  It  happened,  however,  that 
a  little  before  the  approach  of  dawn  a  voice  so  musical  and 
sweet  reached  the  ears  of  the  ladies  that  it  forced  them  all  to 
listen  attentively,  but  especially  Dorothea,  who  had  been  awake, 
and  by  whose  side  Doila  Clara  de  Viedma,  for  so  the  judge's 
daughter  was  called,  lay  sleeping.  No  one  coiild  imagine  who 
it  was  that  sang  so  sweetly,  and  the  voice  was  unaccompanied 
by  any  instrument.  At  one  moment  it  seemed  to  them  as  if 
the  singer  were  in  the  court-yard,  at  another  in  the  stable ;  and 
as  they  were  all  attention,   wondering,  Cardenio  came  to  the 


366  DON    QUIXOTE. 

door  and  said,  "  Listen,  whoever  is  not  asleep,  and  you  will 
hear  a  muleteer's  voice  that  enchants  as  it  chants. " 

"  We  are  listening  to  it  already,  sefior,"  said  Dorothea ;  on 
which  Cardenio  went  away  ;  and  Dorothea,  giving  all  her  at- 
tention to  it,  made  out  the  words  of  the  song  to  be  these  : 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

WHEREIX  IS  RELATED  THE  PLEASANT  STORY  O'F  THE  MULE- 
TEER, TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER  STRANGE  THINGS  THAT  CAME 
TO  PASS  IN  THE  INN. 

Ah  me,  Love's  mariner  am  I  ^ 

On  Love's  deep  ocean  sailing ; 
I  know  not  where  the  haven  lies, 

I  dare  not  hope  to  gain  it. 

One  solitary  distant  star 

Is  all  I  have  to  guide  me, 
A  brighter  orb  than  those  of  old 

That  Palinurus  -  lighted. 

And  vaguely  drifting  am  I  borne, 

I  know  not  where  it  leads  me ; 
I  fix  my  gaze  on  it  alone, 

Of  all  beside  it  heedless. 

But  over-cautious  prudery. 

And  coyness  cold  and  cruel. 
When  most  I  need  it,  these,  like  clouds, 

Its  longed-for  light  refuse  me. 

Bright  star,^  goal  of  my  yearning  eyes 

As  thou  above  me  beamest. 
When  thou  shalt  hide  thee  from  my  sight 

I  '11  know  that  death  is  near  me. 

^  In  this  translation  an  attempt  has  been  made  to  imitate  the  prevailing 
rhyme  of  the  Spanish  ballad,  the  double  assonant  in  the  second  and  fourth 
lines. 

*  Surgit  Palinurus,  et  .   .   . 
Sidora  runcta  notat  tacito  labentia  coelo.  — ^neid  iii. 
^  "  Clara  estrella." 


CHAPTER    XLIII.  367 

The  singer  had  got  so  far  when  it  struck  Dorothea  tliat  it 
was  not  fair  to  let  Clara  miss  hearing  STieh  a  sweet  voice,  so, 
shaking  her  from  side  to  side,  she  woke  her,  saying,  "  Forgive 
me,  child,  for  waking  thee,  but  I  do  so  that  thou  mayest  have 
the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  best  voice  thou  hast  ever  heard, 
perhaps,  in  all  thy  life."  Clara  awoke  quite  drowsy,  and  not 
understanding  at  the  moment  what  Dorothea  said,  asked  her 
what  it  was ;  she  repeated  what  she  had  said,  and  Clara  be- 
came attentive  at  once  ;  but  she  had  hardly  heard  two  lines, 
as  the  singer  continued,  when  a  strange  trembling  seized  her, 
as  if  she  were  suffering  from  a  severe  attack  of  quartan  ague, 
and  throwing  her  arms  round  Dorothea  she  said,  "  Ah,  dear 
lady  of  my  soul  and  life  !  why  did  you  wake  me  '■!  The  great- 
est kindness  fortune  could  do  me  now  would  be  to  close  my 
eyes  and  ears  so  as  neither  to  see  nor  hear  that  unhappy 
musician." 

"What  art  thou  talking  about,  child?"  said  Dorothea. 
''  Why,  they  say  this  singer  is  a  nmleteer." 

"  Nay,  he  is  the  lord  of  nuiny  places,"  replied  Clara,  ''  and 
that  one  in  my  heart  which  he  holds  so  firmly  shall  never  be 
taken  from  him,  unless  he  be  willing  to  surrender  it." 

Dorothea  was  amazed  at  the  ardent  language  of  the  girl,  for 
it  seemed  to  be  far  beyond  such  experience  of  life  as  her  tender 
years  gave  any  promise  of,  so  she  said  to  her,  "  You  speak  in 
such  a  way  that  I  cannot  understand  yon,  Seilora  Clara  ;  ex- 
plain yourself  more  clearly,  and  tell  me  what  is  this  you  are 
saying  about  hearts  and  places  and  this  musician  whose  voice 
has  so  moved  you  ?  But  do  not  tell  me  anything  now ;  I  do 
not  want  to  lose  the  pleasure  I  get  from  listening  to  the  singer 
by  giving  my  attention  to  your  transports,  for  I  perceive  he  is 
beginning  to  sing  a  new  strain  and  a  new  air." 

"  Let  him,  in  Heaven's  name,"  returned  Clara;  and  not  to 
hear  him  she  stopped  both  ears  with  her  hands,  at  which 
Dorothea  was  again  surprised ;  but  turning  her  attention  to 
the  song  she  found  that  it  ran  in  this  fashion : 

Sweet  Hope,  my  stay, 
That  onward  to  the  goal  of  thy  intent 

Dost  make  thy  way. 
Heedless  of  hinderance  or  impediment, 

Have  thou  no  fear 
If  at  each  step  thou  findest  death  is  near. 


368  DON    QUIXOTE. 

No  victory, 
No  joy  of  triumph  doth  the  faint  heart  know; 

Unblest  is  he 
That  a  bold  front  to  Portune  dares  not  show, 

But  soul  and  sense 
In  bondage  yieldeth  up  to  indolence. 

If  Love  his  wares 
Do  dearly  sell,  his  right  must  be  confest ; 

What  gold  compares 
With  that  whereon  his  stamp  he  hath  imprest  ? 

And  all  men  know 
What  costeth  little  that  we  rate  but  low.^ 

Love  resolute 
Knows  not  the  word  "  impossibility ; " 

And  though  my  suit 
Beset  by  endless  obstacles  I  see, 

Yet  no  despair 
Shall  hold  me  bound  to  earth  while  heaven  is  there. 

Here  the  voice  ceased  and  Clara's  sobs  began  afresh,  all 
which  excited  Dorothea's  curiosity  to  know  what  could  be  the 
cause  of  singing  so  sweet  and  weeping  so  bitter,  so  she  again 
asked  her  what  it  was  she  was  going  to  say  before.  On  this 
Clara,  afraid  that  Luscinda  might  overhear  her,  winding  her 
arms  tightly  round  Dorothea  })ut  her  mouth  so  close  to  her 
ear  that  she  could  speak  safely  without  fear  of  being  heard  by 
any  one  else,  and  said,  "  This  singer,  dear  senora,  is  the  son 
of  a  gentleman  of  Aragon,  lord  of  two  villages,  who  lives  op- 
posite my  father's  house  at  Madrid ;  and  though  my  father 
had  curtains  to  the  windows  of  his  house  in  winter,  and  blinds 
in  summer,  in  some  way  —  I  know  not  how  —  this  gentleman, 
who  was  pixrsuing  his  studies,  saw  me  —  whether  in  church  or 
elsewhere,  I  can  not  tell  —  and,  in  fact,  fell  in  love  with  me, 
and  gave  me  to  know  it  from  the  windows  of  his  house,  with 
so  many  signs  and  tears  that  I  was  forced  to  believe  him,  and 
even  to  love  him,  without  knowing  what  it  was  he  wanted 
of  me.  One  of  the  signs  he  used  to  make  me  was  to  link 
one  hand  in  the  other,  to  sIioav  me  he  wished  to  marry 
me ;  and,  though  I  should  have  been  glad  if  that  could  be, 

»  Prov.  190. 


CHAPTER    XLIII.  369 

being  alone  and  motherless  I  knew  not  whom  to  ojjcn  my 
mind  to,  and  so  I  left  it  as  it  was,  showing  him  no  favor,  ex- 
cept when  my  father,  and  his  too,  were  from  home,  to  raise 
the  curtain  or  the  blind  a  little  and  let  him  see  me  })lainly.  at 
which  he  would  show  such  delight  that  he  seemed  as  if  he 
were  going  mad.  Meanwhile  the  time  for  my  father's  de- 
parture arrived,  which  he  became  aware  of,  but  not  from  me, 
for  I  had  never  been  able  to  tell  him  of  it.  He  fell  sick,  of 
grief  I  believe,  and  so  the  day  we  were  going  away  I  could  not 
see  him  to  take  farewell  of  hiin,  were  it  only  with  the  eyes. 
But  after  we  had  been  two  days  on  the  road,  on  entering  the 
posada  of  a  village  a  day's  journey  from  this,  I  saw  him  at 
the  inn  door  in  the  dress  of  a  muleteer,  and  so  well  disguised, 
that  if  I  did  not  carry  his  image  graven  on  my  heart  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  me  to  recognize  him.  But  I  knew 
him,  and  I  was  surprised,  and  glad;  he  watched  me,  unsus- 
pected by  my  father,  from  whom  he  always  hides  himself 
when  he  crosses  my  path  on  the  road,  or  in  the  posadas  where 
we  halt ;  and,  as  I  know  what  he  is,  and  reflect  that  for  love 
of  me  he  makes  this  journey  on  foot  in  all  this  hardship,  I  am 
ready  to  die  of  sorrow ;  and  where  he  sets  foot  there  I  set  my 
eyes.  I  know  not  with  what  object  he  has  come  ;  or  how  he 
could  have  got  away  from  his  father,  who  loves  him  beyond 
measure,  having  no  other  heir,  and  because  he  deserves  it,  as 
you  will  perceive  when  you  see  him.  And  moreover,  I  can 
tell  you,  all  that  lie  sings  is  out  of  his  own  head  ;  for  I  have 
heard  them  say  he  is  a  great  scholar  and  poet ;  and  what  is 
more,  every  time  I  see  him  or  hear  him  sing  I  tremble  all  over, 
and  am  terrified  lest  my  father  should  recognize  him  and 
come  to  know  of  our  loves.  I  have  never  spoken  a  word  to 
him  in  my  life  ;  and  for  all  that  I  love  him  so  that  I  could  not 
live  without  him.  This,  dear  senora,  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you 
about  the  musician  whose  voice  has  delighted  you  so  much  ; 
and  from  it  alone  you  might  easily  perceive  he  is  no  muleteer, 
but  a  lord  of  hearts  and  towns,  as  I  told  you  already." 

"  Say  no  more.  Dona  Clara,"  said  Dorothea  at  this,  at  the 
same  time  kissing  her  a  thousand  times  over,  "  say  no  more,  I 
tell  you,  but  wait  till  day  comes ;  when  I  trust  in  God  to 
arrange  this  affair  of  yours  so  that  it  may  have  the  happy 
ending  such  an  innocent  beginning  deserves." 

"  Ah,  senora,"  said  Dona  Clara,  "  what  end  can  be  hoped  for 
when  his  father  is  of  such  lofty  position,  and  so  wealthy,  that 

Vol.  I.  —  24 


370  DON    QUIXOTE. 

lie  would  think  I  was  not  fit  to  be  even  a  servant  to  liis  son, 
much  less  wife  ?  And  as  to  marrying  without  the  knowledge 
of  my  father,  I  would  not  do  it  for  all  the  Avorld.  I  would 
not  ask  anything  more  than  that  this  youth  should  go  back 
and  leave  me ;  perhaps  Avith  not  seeing  him,  and  the  long 
distance  we  shall  have  to  travel,  the  pain  I  suffer  now  may 
become  easier ;  though  I  dare  say  the  remedy  I  propose  will 
do  me  very  little  good.  I  don't  know  by  what  deviltry  this  has 
come  about,  or  how  this  love  I  have  for  him  got  in ;  I  such  a 
young  girl,  and  he  such  a  mere  boy  ;  for  I  verily  believe  we 
are  both  of  an  age,  and  I  am  not  sixteen  yet ;  for  I  shall  be 
sixteen  Michaelmas  Day  next,  my  father  says." 

Dorothea  could  not  help  laughing  to  hear  how  like  a  child 
Dona  Clara  spoke.  "  Let  us  go  to  sleep  now,  seiiora,"  said 
she,  "  for  the  little  of  the  night  that  I  fancy  is  left  to  us  :  God 
will  soon  send  us  daylight,  and  we  will  set  all  to  rights,  or  it 
will  go  hard  with  me." 

With  this  they  fell  asleep,  and  deep  silence  reigned  all 
through  the  inn.  The  only  persons  not  asleep  were  the  land- 
lady's daughter  and  her  servant  Maritornes,  who,  knowing  the 
weak  point  of  Don  Quixote's  hiunor,  and  that  he  was  outside 
the  inn  mounting  guard  in  armor  and  on  horseback,  resolved, 
the  pair  of  them,  to  play  some  trick  upon  him,  or  at  any  rate 
to  amuse  themselves  for  a  while  by  listening  to  his  nonsense. 
As  it  so  happened  there  was  not  a  window  in  the  whole  inn 
that  looked  outwards  except  a  hole  in  the  wall  of  a  straw-loft 
through  which  they  used  to  throw  out  the  straw.  At  this  hole 
the  two  demi-damsels  posted  themselves,  and  observed  Don 
Quixote  on  his  horse,  leaning  on  his  pike  and  from  time  to 
time  sending  forth  such  deep  and  doleful  sighs,  that  he  seemed 
to  pluck  up  his  soul  by  the  roots  with  each  of  them ;  and  they 
could  hear  him,  too,  saying  in  a  soft,  tender,  loving  tone,  "  Oh 
my  lady  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  perf^tion  of  all  beauty,  summit 
and  crown  of  discretion,  treasure  house  of  grace,  depository  of 
virtue,  and,  finally,  ideal  of  all  that  is  good,  honorable,  and 
delectable  in  this  world !  What  is  thy  grace  doing  now  ? 
Art  thou,  perchance,  mindful  of  thy  enslaved  knight  who  of 
his  own  free  will  hath  exposed  himself  to  so  great  perils,  and 
all  to  serve  thee  ?  Give  me  tidings  of  her,  oh  luminary  of 
the  three  faces !  -^  Perhaps  at  this  moment,  envious  of  hers, 
thou  art  regarding  her,  either  as  she  paces  to  and  fro  some 

'  "  Tria  virgiuis  ora  Dianae."  —  ^neid  iv.  511. 


CHAPTER    XLIII.  371 

gallery  of  her  sumptuous  palaces,  or  leans  over  some  balcony, 
meditating  how,  whilst  preserving  \n\v  [)urity  and  greatness, 
she  may  mitigate  the  tortures  this  wretched  heart  of  mine 
endures  for  her  sake,  what  glory  shoidd  recompense  my  suffer- 
ings, what  repose  my  toil,  and  lastly  what  death  my  life,  and 
what  reward  my  services  ?  And  thoi;,  oh  sun,  that  art  now 
doubtless  harnessing  thy  steeds  in  haste  to  rise  betimes  and 
come  forth  to  see  my  lady  ;  when  thou  seest  her  I  entreat  of 
thee  to  salute  her  on  my  behalf:  but  have  a  care,  when  thou 
shalt  see  her  and  salute  her,  that  thou  kiss  not  her  face  ;  for  I 
shall  be  more  jealous  of  thee  than  thou  wert  of  that  light- 
footed  ingrate  ^  that  nuide  thee  sweat  and  run  so  on  the  plains 
of  Thessaly,  or  on  the  banks  of  the  Peneus  (for  I  do  not  ex- 
actly recollect  where  it  was  thou  didst  run  on  that  occasion) 
in  thy  jealousy  and  love." 

Don  Quixote  had  got  so  far  in  his  pathetic  speech  when  the 
landlady's  daughter  began  to  signal "  to  him,  saying,  "  Seiior, 
come  over  here,  please." 

At  these  signals  and  voice  Don  Quixote  turned  his  head  and 
&cxw  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  which  then  was  in  its  full  splen- 
dor, that  some  one  was  calling  to  him  from  the  hole  in  the  wall, 
which  seemed  to  him  to  be  a  window,  and  what  is  more,  with  a 
gilt  grating,  as  rich  castles,  such  as  he  l)elieved  the  inn  to  be, 
ought  to  have  ;  and  it  immediately  suggested  itself  to  his  imag- 
ination that,  as  on  the  former  occasion,  the  fair  damsel,  the 
daughter  of  the  lady  of  the  castle,  overcome  by  love  for  him, 
was  once  more  endeavoring  to  win  his  affections  ;  and  with  this 
idea,  not  to  show  himself  discourteous,  or  ungrateful,  he  turned 
Rocinante's  head  and  approached  the  hole,  and  as  he  per- 
ceived the  two  wenches  he  said,  "  I  pity  you,  beauteous  lady, 
that  you  should  have  directed  your  thoughts  of  love  to  a 
quarter  from  whence  it  is  impossible  that  such  a  return  can 
be  made  to  you  as  is  due  to  your  great  merit  and  gentle  birth, 
for  which  you  must  not  blame  this  uidiappy  knight-errant  whom 
love  renders  incapable  of  submission  to  any  other  than  her 
whom,  the  first  moment  his  eyes  beheld  her,  he  made  absolute 
mistress  of  his  soul.  Forgive  me,  noble  lady,  and  retire  to  your 
apartment,  and  do  not,  by  any  further  declaration  of  your  pas- 
sion, compel  me  to  show  myself  more  ungrateful ;  and  if,  of  the 

'i.e.  Daphne. 

^  Cecear  —  to  call  attention  by  making  a  hissing  sound  such  as  the 
Andalusians  produce  when  they  have  to  pronounce  ce. 


372  DON    QUIXOTE. 

love  you  bear  me,  you  should  find  that  there  is  anything  else 
in  my  power  wherein  I  can  gratify  yoii,  provided  it  be  not  love 
itself,  demand  it  of  me ;  for  I  swear  to  you  by  that  sweet  ab- 
sent enemy  of  mine  to  grant  it  this  instant,  though  it  be  that 
you  require  of  me  a  lock  of  Medusa's  hair,  which  was  all 
snakes,  or  even  the  very  beams  of  the  sun  shut  up  in  a  vial." 

"  My  mistress  wants  nothing  of  that  sort,  sir  knight,"  said 
Maritornes  at  this. 

''  What  then,  discreet  dame,  is  it  that  your  mistress  wants  ?  " 
replied  Don  Quixote. 

"  Only  one  of  your  fair  hands,"  said  Maritornes,  "  to  enable 
her  to  vent  over  it  the  great  passion  which  has  brought  her  to 
this  loophole,  so  much  to  the  risk  of  her  honor ;  for  if  the  lord 
her  father  had  heard  her,  the  least  slice  he  would  cut  off  her 
would  be  her  ear." 

''  I  should  like  to  see  that  tried,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  but  he 
had  better  beware  of  that,  if  he  does  not  want  to  meet  the 
most  disastrous  end  that  ever  father  in  the  world  met  for 
having  laid  hands  on  the  tender  limbs  of  a  love-stricken 
daughter." 

Maritornes  felt  sure  that  Don  Quixote  would  present  the 
hand  she  had  asked,  and  making  up  her  mind  what  to  do,  she 
got  down  from  the  hole  and  went  into  the  stable,  where  she 
took  the  halter  of  Sancho  Panza's  ass,  and  in  all  haste  re- 
turned to  the  hole,  just  as  Don  Quixote  had  planted  himself 
standing  on  Rocinante's  saddle  in  order  to  reach  the  grated 
window  where  he  supposed  the  love-lorn  damsel  to  be  ;  and 
giving  her  his  hand,  he  said,  "  Lady,  take  this  hand,  or  rather 
this  scourge  of  the  evil-doers  of  the  earth ;  take,  I  say,  this 
hand  which  no  other  hand  of  woman  has  ever  touched,  not 
even  hers  who  has  complete  possession  of  my  entire  body. 
I  present  it  to  you,  not  that  you  may  kiss  it,  but  that  you  may 
observe  the  contexture  of  the  sinews,  the  close  network  of  the 
muscles,  the  breadth  and  capacity  of  the  veins,  whence  you 
may  infer  what  must  be  the  strength  of  the  arm  that  has  such 
a  hand." 

"  That  we  shall  see  presently,"  said  Maritornes,  and  making 
a  running  knot  on  the  halter,  she  passed  it  over  his  wrist  and 
coming  down  from  the  hole  tied  the  other  end  very  firmly  to 
the  bolt  of  the  door  of  the  straw-loft. 

Don  Quixote,  feeling  the  roughness  of  the  rope  on  his  wrist, 
exclaimed,  "  Your  grace  seems  to  be  grating  rather  than  caress- 


CHAPTER    XLIII.  373 

iug  my  hand  ;  treat  it  not  so  harshly,  for  it  is  not  to  l)lanie  for 
the  offence  my  resohition  has  given  you,  nor  is  it  just  to  wreak 
all  your  vengeance  on  so  small  a  part ;  remember  that  one  who 
loves  so  well  should  not  revenge  herself  so  cruelly." 

But  there  was  nobody  now  to  listen  to  these  words  of  Don 
Quixote's,  for  as  soon  as  Maritornes  had  tied  him  she  and  the 
other  made  off,  ready  to  die  with  laughing,  leaving  him,  fas- 
tened in  such  a  way  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  release 
himself. 

He  was,  as  has  been  said,  standing  on  Rocinante,  with  his 
arm  passed  through  the  hole  and  his  wrist  tied  to  the  bolt  of 
the  door,  and  in  mighty  fear  and  dread  of  being  left  hanging 
by  the  arm  if  liocinante  were  to  stir  one  side  or  the  other ;  so 
he  did  not  dare  to  make  the  least  movement,  although  from  the 
patience  and  imperturbable  disposition  of  Eocinante,  he  had 
good  reason  to  expect  that  he  would  stand  Avithout  budging  for 
a  whole  century.  Finding  himself  fast,  then,  and  that  the 
ladies  had  retired,  he  began  to  fancy  that  all  this  was  done  by 
enchantment,  as  on  the  former  occasion  when  in  that  same 
castle  that  enchanted  Moor  of  a  carrier  had  belabored  him  ; 
and  he  cursed  in  his  heart  his  own  want  of  sense  and  judgment 
in  venturing  to  enter  the  castle  again,  after  having  come  off  so 
badly  the  first  time  ;  it  being  a  settled  point  with  knights-errant 
that  when  they  have  tried  an  adventure,  and  have  not  suc- 
ceeded in  it,  it  is  a  sign  that  it  is  not  reserved  for  them  but 
for  others,  and  that  therefore  they  need  not  try  it  again. 
Nevertheless  he  pulled  his  arm  to  see  if  he  could  release  him- 
self, but  it  had  been  inade  so  fast  that  all  his  efforts  were  in 
vain.  It  is  true  he  pulled  it  gently  lest  Ivocinante  should  luove, 
but  try  as  he  might  to  seat  himself  in  the  saddle,  he  had 
nothing  for  it  but  to  stand  upright  or  pull  his  hand  off.  Then 
it  was  he  wished  for  the  sword  of  Amadis,  against  which  no 
enchantment  whatever  had  any  power ;  then  he  cursed  his  ill 
fortune ;  then  he  magnified  the  loss  the  world  would  sustain 
by  his  absence  while  he  remained  there  enchanted,  for  that  he 
believed  he  was  beyond  all  doubt ;  then  he  once  more  took  to 
thinking  of  his  beloved  Dulcinea  del  Toboso  ;  then  he  called  to 
his  worthy  squire  Sancho  Panza,  who,  buried  in  sleep  and 
stretched  upon  the  pack-saddle  of  his  ass,  was  oblivious,  at  that 
moment,  of  the  mother  that  l)ore  him  ;  then  he  called  upon 
the  sages  Lirgandeo  and  Alquif e  ^  to  come  to  his  aid ;  then  he 

'  Magicians  that  figure  in  Tlie  Knight  of  Phoebus. 


374  DON    QUIXOTE. 

invoked  his  good  friend  Urganda  to  succor  him  ;  and  then,  at 
last,  morning  found  him  in  such  a  state  of  desperation  and 
perplexity  that  he  was  bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he  had  no 
hope  that  day  would  bring  any  relief  to  his  suffering,  which  he 
believed  Avould  last  forever,  inasmuch  as  he  was  enchanted ; 
and  of  this  he  Avas  convinced  by  seeing  that  Rocinante  never 
stirred,  much  or  little,  and  he  felt  persuaded  that  he  and  his 
horse  were  to  remain  in  this  state,  without  eating  or  drinking 
or  slee])ing-,  until  the  malign  influence  of  the  stars  was  over- 
past, or  mitil  some  other  more  sage  enchanter  should  disen- 
chant him. 

But  he  was  very  much  deceived  in  this  conclusion,  for  day- 
light had  hardly  begun  to  appear  when  there  came  up  to  the 
inn  four  men  on  horseback,  well  equipped  and  accoutred,  with 
firelocks  across  their  saddle-bows.  They  called  out  and  knocked 
loudly  at  the  gate  of  the  inn,  which  Avas  still  shut ;  on  seeing 
which,  Don  Quixote,  even  there  Avhere  he  was,  did  not  forget 
to  act  as  sentinel,  and  said  in  a  loud  and  imperious  tone, 
"  Knights,  or  squires,  or  whatever  ye  be,  ye  have  no  right  to 
knock  at  the  gates  of  this  castle  ;  for  it  is  plain  enough  that 
they  who  are  within  are  either  asleep,  or  else  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  throwing  open  the  fortress  until  the  sun's  rays  are 
spread  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  earth.  Withdraw  to  a 
distance,  and  wait  till  it  is  broad  daylight,  and  then  we  shall 
see  whether  it  Avill  be  })roper  or  not  to  open  to  you." 

''  What  the  devil  fortress  or  castle  is  this,"  said  one,  "  to 
make  us  stand  on  such  ceremony  ?  If  you  are  the  innkeeper 
bid  them  open  to  us  ;  we  are  travellers  who  only  want  to  feed 
our  horses  and  go  on,  for  we  are  in  haste." 

"  Do  you  think,  gentlemen,  that  I  look  like  an  innkeeper  ?  " 
said  Don  Quixote. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  look  like,"  replied  the  other  ;  ''  but 
I  know  that  you  are  talking  nonsense  when  you  call  this  inn  a 
castle." 

"  A  castle  it  is,"  returned  Don  Quixote,  "  nay,  more,  one  of 
the  best  in  this  whole  province,  and  it  has  Avithin  it  people 
Avho  have  had  the  sceptre  in  the  hand  and  the  crown  on  the 
head." 

"  It  Avould  be  better  if  it  were  the  other  way,"  said  the 
traveller,  "  the  sceptre  on  the  head  and  the  croAvn  in  the  hand  ; 
but  if  so,  maybe  there  is  within  some  company  of  players,  with 
whom  it  is  a  common  thing  to  have  those  crowns  and  sceptres 


DON   QUIXOTE   HANGING    FROM   THE   INN.      Vol.1.      Page  375. 


CHAPTER    XLin.  375 

you  speak  of ;  for  in  such  a  small  inn  as  this,  and  where  such 
silence  is  kept,  I  do  not  believe  any  people  entitled  to  crowns 
and  sceptres  can  have  taken  up  their  quarters." 

"You  know  but  little  of  the  world,"  returned  Don  Quixote, 
"  since  you  are  ignorant  of  what  commonly  occurs  in  knight- 
errantry." 

But  the  comrades  of  the  spokesman  growing  weary  of  the 
dialogue  with  Don  Quixote,  renewed  their  knocks  with  great 
vehemence,  so  much  so  that  the  host,  and  not  only  he  but 
everybody  in  the  inn,  awoke,  and  he  got  up  to  ask  who 
knocked.  It  happened  at  this  moment  that  one  of  the  horses 
of  the  four  who  were  seeking  admittance  went  to  smell  K-oci- 
nante,  who  melancholy,  dejected,  and  with  drooping  ears,  stood 
motionless,  supporting  his  sorely  stretched  master ;  and  as  he 
was,  after  all,  flesh,  though  he  looked  as  if  he  were  made  of 
wood,  he  could  not  help  giving  way  and  in  return  smelling  the 
one  who  had  come  to  offer  him  attentions.  But  he  had  hardly 
moved  at  all  when  Don  Quixote  lost  his  footing  ;  and  slipping 
oft"  the  saddle,  he  would  have  come  to  the  ground,  but  for 
being  suspended  by  the  arm,  which  caused  him  such  agony  that 
he  believed  either  his  wrist  would  be  cut  tliroi;gh  or  his  arm 
torn  off ;  and  he  hung  so  near  the  ground  that  he  could  just 
touch  it  with  his  feet,  which  was  all  the  worse  for  him ;  for, 
finding  how  little  was  wanted  to  enable  him  to  plant  his  feet 
firmly,  he  struggled  and  stretched  himself  as  much  as  he  could 
to  gain  a  footing  ;  just  like  those  undergoing  the  torture  of  the 
strappado,  when  they  are  fixed  at  "  touch  and  no  touch,"  who 
aggravate  their  own  sufferings  by  their  violent  efforts  to  stretch 
themselves,  deceived  by  the  hope  which  makes  them  fancy 
that  with  a  very  little  more  they  will  reach  the  ground.^ 

'  There  is  some  inconsistency  here.  How  conkl  Don  Quixote  fall  almost 
to  the  ground,  if  wlien  standing  on  Rocinante  he  was  tied  tip  so  tightly  as 
we  are  told?  Hartzenbusch,  more  suo,  has  an  ingenious  exphmation,  by 
which  he  avoids  the  simpler  one,  that  Cervantes  never  gave  a  tbought  to 
the  matter.  The  strappado  was  inflicted  by  tying  the  hands  of  the  victim 
behind  his  back  and  then  hanging  him  by  the  wrists  from  a  crossbeam  or 
bough  of  a  tree.  Examples  of  it  may  be  seen  among  Callot's  sketches. 
There  is  something  almost  ghastly  in  its  introduction  here  as  an  illustra- 
tion which  must  as  a  matter  of  course  be  familiar  to  every  reader. 


376  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

IN    WHICH    ARE    CONTINUED    THE    UNHEAED-OF  ADVENTURES  OF 

THE    INN. 

So  loud,  in  fact,  were  the  shouts  of  Don  Quixote,  that  the 
landlord  opening  the  gate  of  the  inn  in  all  haste,  came  out  in 
dismay,  and  ran  to  see  who  was  uttering  such  cries,  and  those 
who  were  outside  joined  him.  Maritornes,  who  had  been  by 
this  time  roused  up  by  the  same  outcry,  suspecting  what  it  was, 
ran  to  the  loft  and,  without  any  one  seeing  her,  untied  the 
halter  by  which  Don  Quixote  was  suspended,  and  down  he 
came  to  the  ground  in  the  sight  of  the  landlord  and  the  trav- 
ellers, who  approaching  asked  him  what  was  the  matter  with 
him  that  he  shouted  so.  He  without  replying  a  word  took 
the  rope  off  his  wrist,  and  rising  to  his  feet  leaped  upon  Ro- 
cinaute,  braced  his  buckler  on  his  arm,  put  his  lance  in  rest, 
and  making  a  considerable  circuit  of  the  plain  came  back  at  a 
half  gallop  exclaiming,  "  Whoever  shall  say  that  I  have  been 
enchanted  with  just  cause,  provided  my  lady  the  Princess  Mi- 
comicona  grants  me  permission  to  do  so,  I  give  him  the  lie, 
challenge  him  and  defy  him  to  single  combat." 

The  newly  arrived  travellers  were  amazed  at  the  words  of 
Don  Quixote  ;  but  the  landlord  removed  their  surprise  by  tell- 
ing them  who  he  was,  and  not  to  mind  him  as  he  was  out  of 
his  senses.  They  then  asked  the  landlord  if  by  any  chance  a 
youth  of  about  fifteen  years  of  age  had  come  to  that  inn,  one 
dressed  like  a  muleteer,  and  of  such  and  such  an  appearance, 
describing  that  of  Doiia  Clara's  lover.  The  landlord  replied 
that  there  were  so  many  people  in  the  inn  he  had  not  noticed 
the  person  they  were  inquiring  for ;  but  one  of  them  observing 
the  coach  in  which  the  judge  had  come,  said,  "  He  is  here  no 
doubt,  for  this  is  the  coach  he  is  following  :  let  one  of  us  stay 
at  the  gate,  and  the  rest  go  in  to  look  for  him  ;  or  indeed  it 
would  be  as  well  if  one  of  us  went  round  the  inn,  lest  he  should 
escape  over  the  wall  of  the  yard."  "  So  be  it,"  said  another  ; 
and  while  two  of  them  went  in,  one  remained  at  the  gate  and 
the  other  made  the  circuit  of  the  inn  ;  observing  all  which,  the 
landlord  was  unable  to  conjecture  for  what  reason  they  were 
taking  all  these  precautions,  though  he  understood  they  were 
looking  for  the  youth  whose  description  they  had  given  him. 


CHAPTER    XLTV.  377 

It  was  by  this  time  broad  daylight ;  and  for  that  reason,  as 
well  as  in  consequence  of  the  noise  Don  Quixote  had  made, 
everybody  was  awake  and  up,  but  particularly  Dona  Clara 
and  Dorothea ;  for  they  had  been  al)le  to  sleep  but  badly  that 
night,  the  one  from  agitation  at  having  her  lover  so  near  her, 
the  other  from  curiosity  to  see  him.  Don  Quixote,  when  he 
saw  that  not  one  of  the  four  travellers  took  any  notice  of  him 
or  replied  to  his  challenge,  was  furious  and  ready  to  die  with 
indignation  and  wrath  ;  and  if  he  could  have  found  in  the  or- 
dinances of  chivalry  that  it  was  lawfid  for  a  knight-errant  to 
undertake  or  engage  in  another  enterprise,  when  he  had  plighted 
his  word  and  faith  not  to  involve  hijuself  in  any  until  he  had 
made  an  end  of  the  one  to  which  he  was  pledged,  he  would 
have  attacked  the  whole  of  them,  and  would  have  made  them 
return  an  answer  in  spite  of  themselves.  But  considering  that 
it  would  not  become  him,  nor  be  right,  to  begin  any  new  em- 
prise until  he  had  established  Micomicona  in  her  kingdom,  he 
was  constrained  to  hold  his  peace  and  wait  quietly  to  see  what 
would  be  the  upshot  of  the  proceedings  of  those  same  travel- 
lers ;  one  of  whom  found  the  youth  they  were  seeking  lying 
asleep  by  the  side  of  a  muleteer,  without  a  thought  of  any  one 
coming  in  search  of  him,  much  less  finding  him. 

The  man  laid  hold  of  him  by  the  arm,  saying,  "  It  becomes 
you  well  indeed,  Senor  Don  Luis,  to  be  in  the  dress  you  wear, 
and  well  the  bed  in  which  I  find  you  agrees  with  the  luxury  in 
which  your  mother  reared  you." 

The  youth  rubbed  his  sleepy  eyes  and  stared  for  a  while  at 
him  who  held  him,  but  presently  recognized  him  as  one  of  his 
father's  servants,  at  which  he  was  so  taken  aback  that  for 
some  time  he  could  not  find  or  utter  a  word ;  Avhile  the  servant 
went  on  to  say,  "  There  is  nothing  for  it  now,  Seflor  Don  Luis, 
but  to  submit  quietly  and  return  home,  unless  it  is  your  wish 
that  my  lord,  your  father,  should  take  his  departure  for  the 
other  world,  for  nothing  else  can  be  the  consequence  of  the 
grief  he  is  in  at  your  absence." 

"  But  how  did  my  father  know  that  I  had  gone  this  road  and 
in  this  dress  ?  "  said  Don  Luis. 

"  It  was  a  student  to  whom  you  confided  your  intentions," 
answered  the  servant,  "  that  disclosed  them,  touched  with  pity 
at  the  distress  he  saw  your  father  suffer  on  missing  you ;  he 
therefore  despatched  four  of  his  servants  in  quest  of  you,  and 
here  we  all  are  at  your  service,  better  pleased  than  you  can 


378  DON    QUIXOTE. 

imagine  that  we  shall  return  so  soon  and  restore  you  to  those 
eyes  that  so  yearn  for  yon." 

''  That  shall  be  as  I  please,  or  as  Heaven  orders,"  returned 
Don  Luis. 

"  What  can  you  please  or  Heaven  order,"  said  the  other,  "  ex- 
cept to  agree  to  go  back  ?     Anything  else  is  impossible." 

All  this  conversation  between  the  two  was  overheard  by  the 
muleteer  at  whose  side  Don  Luis  lay,  and  rising,  he  went  to 
report  what  had  taken  place  to  Don  Fernando,  Oardenio,  and 
the  others,  who  had  by  this  time  dressed  themselves  ;  and  told 
them  how  the  man  had  addressed  the  youth  as  "  Don,"  and 
what  words  had  passed,  and  how  he  wauted  him  to  return  to 
his  father,  which  the  youth  was  unwilling  to  do.  With  this, 
and  what  they  already  knew  of  the  rare  voice  that  Heaven  had 
bestowed  upon  him,  they  all  felt  very  anxious  to  know  more 
particularly  who  he  was,  and  even  to  help  him  if  it  was  at- 
tempted to  employ  force  against  him  ;  so  they  hastened  to 
where  he  was  still  talking  and  arguing  with  his  servant.  Dor- 
othea at  this  instant  came  out  of  her  room,  followed  by  Dona 
Clara  all  in  a  tremor ;  and  calling  Cardenio  aside,  she  told  him 
in  a  few  words  the  story  of  the  musician  and  Dona  Clara,  and 
he  at  the  same  time  told  what  had  happened,  how  his  father's 
servants  had  come  in  search  of  him  ;  but  in  telling  her  so,  he 
did  not  speak  low  enough  but  that  Dona  Clara  heard  what  he 
said,  at  which  she  was  so  much  agitated  that  had  not  Dorothea 
hastened  to  support  her  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground. 
Cardenio  then  bade  Dorothea  return  to  her  room,  as  he  would 
endeavor  to  make  the  whole  matter  right,  and  they  did  as  he 
desired.  All  the  four  who  had  come  in  quest  of  Don  Luis  had 
now  come  into  the  inn  and  surrounded  him,  urging  him  to  re- 
turn and  console  his  father  and  at  once  without  a  moment's 
delay.  He  replied  that  he  could  not  do  so  on  any  account 
until  he  had  concluded  some  business  in  which  his  life,  honor, 
and  heart  were  at  stake.  The  servants  pressed  him,  saying 
that  most  certainly  they  would  not  return  without  him,  and 
that  they  would  take  him  away  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 

"  You  shall  not  do  that,"  replied  Don  Luis,  "  unless  you  take 
me  dead  ;  though  however  you  take  me,  it  will  be  without 
life." 

By  this  time  most  of  those  in  the  inn  had  been  attracted  by 
the  dispute,  but  particxilarly  Cardenio,  Don  Fernando,  his  com- 
panions, the  judge,  the  curate,  the  barber,  and  Don  Quixote  ; 


CHAPTER    XLIV.  379 

for  he  now  considered  there  was  no  necessity  for  mounting 
gnard  over  the  castle  any  longer.  Cardenio  being  already  ac- 
quainted with  the  young  man's  story,  asked  the  men  who  wanted 
to  take  him,  what  object  they  had  in  seeking  to  carry  off  this 
youth  against  his  will. 

"  Our  object,"  said  one  of  the  four,  '•  is  to  save  the  life  of 
his  father,  who  is  in  danger  of  losing  it  through  this  gentle- 
man's disappearance." 

Upon  this  Don  Luis  exclaimed,  "  There  is  no  need  to  make 
my  affairs  public  here ;  I  am  free,  and  I  will  return  if  I 
please  ;  and  if  not,  none  of  you  shall  compel  me." 

"  Reason  will  compel  your  worship,"  said  the  man,  "  and  if 
it  has  no  power  over  you,  it  has  power  over  \\s,  to  make  us  do 
what  we  came  for,  and  what  it  it  our  duty  to  do." 

"  Let  us  hear  what  the  whole  affair  is  about,"  said  the  judge 
at  this  ;  but  the  man,  who  kncAv  him  as  a  neighbor  of  theirs, 
replied,  "  Do  you  not  know  this  gentleman,  senor  judge  ?  He 
is  the  son  of  your  neighbor,  who  has  run  away  from  his  father's 
house  in  a  dress  so  unbecoming  his  rank,  as  your  worship  may 
perceive." 

The  judge  on  this  looked  at  him  more  carefully  and  recog- 
nized him,  and  embracing  him  said,  "  What  folly  is  this,  Sehor 
Don  Luis,  or  what  can  have  been  the  cause  that  could  have 
induced  you  to  come  here  in  this  way,  and  in  this  dress,  which 
so  ill  becomes  your  condition  ?  " 

Tears  came  into  the  eyes  of  the  young  man,  and  he  was  un- 
able to  utter  a  word  in  reply  to  the  judge,  who  told  the  four 
servants  not  to  be  uneasy,  for  all  would  be  satisfactorily  set- 
tled ;  and  then  taking  Don  Luis  by  the  hand,  he  drew  him 
aside  and  asked  the  reason  of  his  having  come  there. 

But  while  he  was  questioning  him  they  heard  a  loud  outcry 
at  the  gate  of  the  inn,  the  cause  of  which  was  that  two  of  the 
guests  who  had  passed  the  night  there,  seeing  everybody  busy 
about  finding  out  what  it  was  the  four  men  wanted,  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  going  off  without  paying  what  they  owed  ) 
but  the  landlord,  who  minded  his  own  affairs  more  than  other 
people's,  caught  them  going  out  of  the  gate  and  demanded  his 
reckoning,  abusing  them  for  their  dishonesty  with  such  lan- 
guage that  he  drove  them  to  reply  with  their  fists,  and  so  they 
began  to  lay  on  him  in  such  a  style  that  the  poor  man  was 
forced  to  cry  out,  and  call  for  help.  The  landlady  and  her 
daughter  could  see  no  one  more  free  to  give  aid  than  Don 


S80  t)ON    QUIXOTE. 

Quixote,  and  to  him  the  daughter  said,  "  Sir  knight,  by  the 
virtue  God  has  given  you,  help  my  poor  father,  for  there  are 
two  wicked  men  beating  him  to  a  mummy." 

To  which  Don  Quixote  very  deliberately  and  phlegm atically 
replied,  "  Fair  damsel,  at  the  present  moment  your  request  is 
inopportune,  for  I  am  debarred  from  involving  myself  in  any 
adventure  nntil  I  have  brought  to  a  happy  conclusion  one  to 
which  my  word  has  pledged  me  ;  bi;t  that  Avhich  I  can  do  for 
you  is  what  I  will  now  mention  :  run  and  tell  your  father  to 
stand  his  ground  as  well  as  he  can  in  this  battle,  and  on  no 
account  to  allow  himself  to  be  vanquished,  while  I  go  and  re- 
quest permission  of  the  Princess  Micomicona  to  enable  me  to 
succor  him  in  his  distress  ;  and  if  she  grants  it,  rest  assured  I 
will  relieve  him  from  it." 

"  Sinner  that  I  am,"  exclaimed  Maritornes,  who  stood  by  ; 
"  before  you  have  got  your  permission  my  master  will  be  in 
the  other  world." 

"  Give  me  leave,  seilora,  to  obtain  the  permission  I  speak 
of,"  returned  Doii  Quixote;  "  and  if  I  get  it,  it  will  matter  very 
little  if  he  is  in  the  other  world ;  for  I  will  rescue  him  thence 
in  spite  of  all  the  same  world  can  do ;  or  at  any  rate  I  will 
give  you  such  a  revenge  over  those  who  shall  have  sent  him 
there  that  you  will  be  more  than  moderately  satisfied  ;  "  and 
without  saying  anything  more  he  went  and  knelt  before  Doro- 
thea, requesting  her  Highness  in  knightly  and  errant  phrase 
to  be  pleased  to  grant  him  permission  to  aid  and  succor  the 
castellan  of  the  castle,  who  now  stood  in  grievoiis  jeo])ardy. 
The  princess  granted  it  graciously,  and  he  at  once,  bracing  his 
buckler  on  his  arm  and  drawing  his  sword,  hastened  to  the 
inn-gate,  where  the  two  guests  were  handling  the  landlord 
roughly  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  reached  the  spot  he  stopped  short 
and  stood  still,  though  Maritornes  and  the  landlady  asked  him 
why  he  hesitated  to  help  their  master  and  husband. 

"  I  hesitate,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  because  it  is  not  lawful  for 
me  to  draw  sword  against  persons  of  squirely  condition ;  but 
call  my  squire  Sancho  to  me  ;  for  this  defence  and  vengeance 
are  his  affair  and  business." 

Thus  matters  stood  at  the  inn-gate,  where  there  was  a  very 
lively  exchange  of  fisticuffs  and  punches,  to  the  sore  damage 
of  the  landlord  and  to  the  wrath  of  Maritornes,  the  landlady, 
and  her  daughter,  Avho  were  furious  when  they  saw  the  pusil- 
lanimity of  Don  Quixote,  and  the  hard  treatment  their  master, 


en  AFTER    XLIV.  S81 

husband,  and  father  was  undergoing.  But  let  us  leave  him 
there ;  for  he  will  surely  find  some  one  to  help  him,  and  if  not, 
let  him  suffer  and  hold  his  tongue  who  attempts  more  than  his 
strength  allows  him  to  do ;  and  let  us  go  back  fi^fty  paces  to  see 
what  Don  Luis  said  in  reply  to  the  judge  whom  we  left  ques- 
tioning him  privately  as  to  his  reasons  for  coming  on  foot  and 
so  meanly  dressed. 

To  which  the  youth,  pressing  his  hand  in  a  Avay  that  showed 
his  heart  was  troubled  by  some  great  sorrow,  and  shedding  a 
flood  of  tears,  made  answer  :  "  8eiior,  I  have  no  more  to  tell 
you  than  that  for  the  moment  when,  through  Heaven's  will  and 
our  being  near  neighbors,  I  first  saw  Dona  Clara,  your  daughter 
and  my  lady,  from  that  instant  I  made  her  the  mistress  of  my 
will,  and  if  yours,  my  true  lord  and  father,  offers  no  imi)edi- 
ment,  this  very  day  she  shall  become  my  wife.  For  her  I  left 
my  father's  house,  and  for  her  I  assumed  this  disguise,  to  fol- 
low her  whithersoever  she  may  go,  as  the  arrow  seeks  its  mark 
or  the  sailor  the  pole-star.  She  knows  nothing  more  of  my 
passion  than  what  she  may  have  learned  from  having  some- 
times seen  from  a  distance  that  my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 
You  know  already,  senor,  the  wealth  and  noble  birth  of  my 
parents,  and  that  I  am  their  sole  heir  ;  if  this  be  a  sufficient 
inducement  for  you  to  venture  to  make  me  completely  hajipy, 
accept  me  at  once  as  your  son ;  for  if  my  father,  influenced  by 
other  objects  of  his  own,  should  disap})rove  of  this  ha})piness  I 
have  sought  for  myself,  time  has  more  power  to  alter  and 
change  things,  than  human  will." 

With  this  the  love-smitten  youth  was  silent,  while  the  judge, 
after  hearing  him,  was  astonished,  perplexed,  and  surprised, 
as  well  at  the  manner  and  intelligence  with  which  Don  Luis 
had  confessed  the  secret  of  his  heart,  as  at  the  position  in 
which  he  found  himself,  not  knowing  what  course  to  take  in  a 
matter  so  sudden  and  unexpected.  All  the  answer,  therefore,  he 
gave  him  was  to  bid  him  to  make  his  mind  easy  for  the  present, 
and  arrange  with  his  servants  not  to  take  him  back  that  day, 
so  that  there  might  be  time  to  consider  what  was  best  for  all 
parties.  Don  Luis  kissed  his  hands  l)y  force,  nay,  bathed  them 
with  his  tears,  in  a  way  that  would  have  touched  a  heart  of 
marble,  not  to  say  that  of  the  judge,  who  as  a  shrewd  man, 
had  already  perceived  how  advantageous  the  marriage  would 
be  to  his  daughter  ;  though,  were  it  possible,  he  would  have 
preferred  that  it  should  be  brought  about  with  the  consent  of 


382  DON    QXTTXOTE. 

the  father  of  Don  Luis,  who  he  knew  looked  for  a  title  for  his 
son. 

The  guests  had  by  this  time  made  peace  with  the  landlord, 
for,  by  persuasion  and  Don  Quixote's  fair  words  more  than  by 
threats,  they  had  paid  him  what  he  demanded,  and  the  servants 
of  Don  Luis  were  waiting  for  the  end  of  the  conversation  with 
tlie  judge  and  their  master's  decision,  when  the  devil,  who  never 
sleeps,  contrived  that  the  barber,  from  whom  Don  Quixote  had 
taken  Mambrino\s  helmet,  and  Sanclio  Panza  the  trappings  of 
his  ass  in  exchange  for  those  of  his  own,  should  at  this  instant 
enter  the  inn  ;  which  said  barber,  as  he  led  his  ass  to  the 
stable,  observed  Sancho  Panza  engaged  in  repairing  something 
or  other  belonging  to  the  pack-saddle ;  and  the  moment  he  saw 
it  he  knew  it,  and  made  bold  to  attack  Sancho,  exclaiming, 
''  Ho,  sir  thief,  I  have  caught  you  !  hand  over  my  basin  and  my 
pack-saddle,  and  all  my  trappings  that  you  robbed  me  of." 

Sancho,  finding  himself  so  unexpectedly  assailed,  and  hear- 
ing the  abuse  poured  upon  him,  seized  the  pack-saddle  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  gave  the  barber  a  cuff  that  bathed  his 
teeth  in  blood.  The  barber,  however,  was  not  so  ready  to  re- 
linquish the  prize  he  had  made  in  the  pack-saddle  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  raised  such  an  outcry  that  every  one  in  the  inn  came 
running  to  know  what  the  noise  and  quarrel  meant.  ''  Here, 
in  the  name  of  the  king  and  justice  !  "  he  cried,  "  this  thief 
and  highwayman  wants  to  kill  me  for  trying  to  recover  my 
property." 

"  You  lie,"  said  Sancho,  "  I  am  no  highwayman  ;  it  was  in 
fair  war  my  master  Don  Quixote  won  these  spoils." 

Don  Quixote  was  standing  by  at  the  time,  highly  pleased  to 
see  his  squire's  stoutness,  both  offensive  and  defensive,  and  from 
that  time  forth  he  reckoned  him  a  man  of  mettle,  and  in  his 
heart  resolved  to  dub  him  a  knight  on  the  first  opportunity  that 
presented  itself,  feeling  sure  that  the  order  of  chivalry  would 
be  fittingly  bestowed  upon  him. 

In  the  course  of  the  altercation,  among  other  things  the 
barber  said,  "  Gentlemen,  this  pack-saddle  is  mine  as  surely  as 
1  OAve  God  a  death,  and  I  know  it  as  Avell  as  if  I  had  given 
birth  to  it,  and  here  is  my  ass  in  tlie  stable  who  will  not  let  me 
lie ;  only  try  it,  and  if  it  does  not  fit  him  like  a  glove,  call  me 
a  rascal ;  and  what  is  more,  the  same  day  I  was  robbed  of  this, 
they  robbed  me  likewise  of  a  new  brass  basin,  never  yet  hand- 
selled, that  would  fetch  a  crown  any  day." 


CHAPTER    XLIV.  383 

At  this  Don  Quixote  could  not  keep  himself  from  answer- 
ing ;  and  interposing  between  the  two,  and  separating  them, 
he  placed  the  pack-saddle  on  the  ground,  to  lie  there  in  sight 
until  the  truth  was  established,  and  said,  "  Your  worships  may- 
perceive  clearly  and  plainly  the  error  under  which  this  worthy 
squire  lies  when  he  calls  that  a  basin  which  was,  is,  and  shall 
be  the  helmet  of  Mambrino,  which  I  won  from  him  in  fair 
war,  and  made  myself  master  of  by  legitimate  and  lawful 
possession.  With  the  pack-saddle  I  do  not  concern  myself ; 
but  I  may  tell  you  on  that  head  that  my  squire  Sancho  asked 
my  permission  to  strip  off  the  caparison  of  this  vanquished 
poltroon's  steed,  and  with  it  adorn  his  own  ;  I  allowed  him, 
and  he  took  it ;  and  as  to  its  having  been  changed  from  a  capar- 
ison into  a  pack-saddle,  I  can  give  no  exi)lanation  except  the 
usual  one,  that  such  transformations  will  take  place  in  advent- 
ures of  chivalry.  To  confirm  all  which,  run,  Sancho  my  son, 
and  fetch  hither  the  helmet  which  this  good  fellow  calls  a 
basin." 

"  Egad,  master,"  said  Sancho,  "  if  we  have  no  other  proof  of 
our  case  than  what  your  worship  puts  forward,  Mambrino's 
helmet  is  just  as  much  a  basin  as  this  good  fellow's  caparison 
is  a  pack-saddle." 

"  Do  as  I  bid  thee,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  it  can  not  be  that 
everything  in  this  castle  goes  by  enchantment." 

Sancho  hastened  to  where  the  basin  was,  and  brought  it  back 
with  him,  and  when  Don  Quixote  saw  it,  he  took  hold  of  it 
and  said,  "  Yoiir  worships  niay  see  with  what  a  face  this  scpiire 
can  assert  that  this  is  a  basin  and  not  the  helmet  I  told  you  of; 
and  I  swear  by  the  order  of  chivalry  I  profess,  that  this  hel- 
met is  the  identical  one  I  took  from  him,  Avithout  anything 
added  to  or  taken  from  it." 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  that,"  said  Sancho,  "  for  from  the 
time  my  master  won  it  luitil  now  he  has  only  fought  one  battle 
in  it,  when  he  let  loose  those  unlucky  men  in  chains ;  and  if  it 
had  not  been  for  this  basin-helmet  he  would  not  have  come  off 
over  Avell  that  time,  for  there  was  plenty  of  stone-throwing  in 
that  affair." 


384  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

IN  WHICH  THE  DOUBTFUL  QUESTION  OF  MAMBRINO's  HELMET 
AND  THE  PACK-SADDLE  IS  FINALLY  SETTLED,  WITH  OTHER 
ADVENTURES    THAT    OCCURRED    IN    TRUTH    AND    EARNEST. 

-'  What  do  you  think  now^  gentlemen,"  said  the  barber,  "  of 
what  these  gentles  say,  when  they  even  want  to  make  out  that 
this  is  not  a  basin  but  a  helmet  ?  " 

<'  And  Avhoever  says  the  contrary,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  I 
will  let  him  know  he  lies  if  he  is  a  knight,  and  if  he  is  a 
squire  that  he  lies  again  a  thousand  times." 

Our  own  barber,  who  was  present  at  all  this,  and  understood 
Don  Quixote's  humor  so  thoroughly,  took  it  into  his  head  to 
back  up  his  delusion  and  carry  on  the  joke  for  the  general 
amusement ;  so  addressing  the  other  barber  he  said,  "  Senor 
barber,  or  whatever  you  are,  you  must  know  that  I  belong  to 
your  profession  too,  and  have  had  a  license  to  practise  for 
more  than  twenty  years,  and  I  know  the  implements  of  the 
barber  craft,  every  one  of  them,  perfectly  well ;  and  I  was 
likewise  a  soldier  for  some  time  in  the  days  of  my  youth,  and 
I  know  also  what  a  helmet  is,  and  a  morion,  and  a  headpiece 
with  a  visor,  and  other  things  pertaining  to  soldiering,  I  mean 
to  say  to  soldiers'  arms  ;  and  I  say  —  saving  better  opinions 
and  always  with  submission  to  sounder  judgments  —  that  this 
piece  we  have  now  before  us,  which  this  worthy  gentleman  has 
in  his  hands,  not  only  is  no  barber's  basin,  but  is  as  far  from 
being  one  as  white  is  from  black,  and  truth  from  falsehood  ;  I 
say,  moreover,  that  this,  although  it  is  a  helmet,  is  not  a  com- 
plete helmet." 

'•  Certainly  not,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  half  of  it  is  wanting, 
that  is  to  say  the  beaver." 

"  It  is  quite  true,"  said  the  curate,  who  saw  the  object  of  his 
friend  the  barber  ;  and  Cardenio,  Don  Fernando  and  his  com- 
panions agreed  with  him,  and  even  the  judge,  if  his  thoughts 
had  not  been  so  full  of  Don  Luis's  aifair,  would  have  helped 
to  carry  on  the  joke  ;  but  he  was  so  taken  up  with  the  serious 
matters  he  had  on  his  mind  that  hei  paid  little  or  no  attention 
to  these  facetious  proceedings. 

"  God  bless  me  !  "  exclaimed  their  butt  the  barber  at  this ; 
"  is  it  possible  that  such  an  honorable  company  can  say  that 


CHAPTER    XLV.  385 

this  is  not  a  basin  but  a  helmet  ?  Why,  this  is  a  thing  that 
wouhl  astonisli  a  whole  nniversity,  however  wise  it  mij^ht  be  ! 
That  will  do;  if  this  basin  is  a  helmet,  why,  then  the  pack- 
saddle  must  be  a  horse's  caparison,  as  this  gentleman  has 
said." 

"  To  me  it  looks  like  a  pack-saddle,'*'  said  Don  Quixote ; 
"  but  I  have  already  said  that  with  that  question  I  do  not  con- 
cern myself." 

"  As  to  whether  it  be  pack-saddle  or  caparison,"  said  the  cu- 
rate, "  it  is  only  for  Sehor  Don  Quixote  to  say  ;  for  in  these  mat- 
ters of  chivalry  all  these  gentlemen  and  I  bow  to  his  authority." 

''  By  God,  gentlemen,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  so  many  strange 
things  have  hap})ened  to  me  in  this  castle  on  the  two  occasions 
on  which  I  have  sojourned  in  it,  that  I  will  not  venture  to  as- 
sert anything  positively  in  reply  to  any  question  touching  any- 
thing it  contains ;  for  it  is  my  belief  that  everything  that 
goes  on  within  it  goes  by  enchantment.  The  first  time,  an  en- 
chanted Moor  that  there  is  in  it  gave  me  sore  trouble,  nor  did 
Sancho  fare  well  among  certain  followers  of  his  ;  and  last 
night  I  was  kept  hanging  by  this  arm  for  nearly  two  hours,  with- 
out knowing  how  or  why  I  came  by  such  a  mislia}).  So  that 
now,  for  me  to  come  forward  to  give  an  opinion  in* such  a  puz- 
zling nmtter,  would  be  to  risk  a  rash  decision.  As  regards  the 
assertion  that  this  is  a  basin  and  not  a  helmet  I  have  already 
given  an  answer  ;  but  as  to  the  question  whether  this  is  a  pack- 
saddle  or  a  caparison  I  will  not  venture  to  give  a  positive 
opinion,  but  will  leave  it  to  your  worship's  better  judgment. 
Perhaps  as  you  are  not  dubbed  knights  like  myself,  the  en- 
chantments of  this  place  have  nothing  to  do  with  you,  and 
your  faculties  are  imfettered,  and  you  can  see  things  in  this 
castle  as  they  really  and  truly  are,  and  not  as  they  appear 
to  me." 

"  There  can  be  no  question,"  said  Don  Fernando  on  this, 
"but  that  Senor  Don  Quixote  has  spoken  very  wisely,  and  that 
with  us  rests  the  decision  of  this  matter  ;  and  that  we  may 
have  surer  ground  to  go  on,  I  will  take  the  votes  of  the  gentle- 
men in  secret,  and  declare  the  result  clearly  and  fully." 

To  those  who  were  in  the  secret  of  Don  Quixote's  humor  all 
this  afforded  great  amusement ;  but  to  those  who  knew  noth- 
ing about  it,  it  seemed  the  greatest  nonsense  in  the  world,  in 
particular  to  the  four  servants  of  Don  Luis,  as  well  as  to 
Don  Luis  himself,  and  to  three  other  travellers  who  had  by 

Vol..  I. -35 


386  DON    QUIXOTE. 

chance  come  to  the  inn,  and  had  the  appearance  of  officers  of 
the  Holy  Brotherhood,  as  indeed  they  were  ;  but  the  one  who 
above  all  was  at  his  wits'  end  was  the  barber  whose  basin, 
there  before  his  very  eyes,  had  been  tnrned  into  Mambrino's 
helmet,  and  whose  pack-saddle,  he  had  no  doubt  whatever  w^as 
about  to  become  a  rich  caparison  for  a  horse.  All  laughed  to 
see  Don  Fernando  going  from  one  to  another  collecting  the 
votes,  and  whispering  to  them  to  give  him  their  private  opinion 
whether  the  treasure  over  which  there  had  been  so  much  fight- 
ing was  a  pack-saddle  or  a  caparison  ;  but  after  he  had  taken 
the  votes  of  those  who  knew  Don  Quixote,  he  said  aloud,  "  The 
fact  is,  my  good  fellow,  that  I  am  tired  collecting  such  a  mim- 
ber  of  opinions,  for  I  hnd  that  there  is  not  one  of  whom  I  ask 
what  I  desire  to  know,  who  does  not  tell  me  that  it  is  absurd 
to  say  that  this  is  the  pack-saddle  of  an  ass,  and  not  the  capar- 
ison of  a  horse,  nay,  of  a  thoroughbred  horse ;  so  you  must 
submit,  for,  in  spite  of  you  and  your  ass,  this  is  a  caparison 
and  no  pack-saddle,  and  you  have  stated  and  proved  your  case 
very  badly." 

"  May  I  never  share  heaven,"  said  the  poor  barber,  "  if  your 
worships  are  not  all  mistaken  ;  and  may  my  soul  appear  before 
God  as  that*  appears  to  me  a  pack-saddle  and  not  a  caparison  j 
but  '  laws  go,' '  —  I  say  no  more  ;  and  indeed  I  am  not  drunk, 
for  I  am  fasting,  except  it  be  from  sin." 

The  simple  talk  of  the  barber  did  not  afford  less  amusement 
than  the  absurdities  of  Don  Quixote,  who  now  observed,  "  There 
is  no  more  to  be  done  uoav  than  for  each  to  take  what  belongs 
to  him,  and  to  whom  God  has  given  it,  may  St.  Peter  add  his 
blessing." 

But  said  one  of  the  four  servants,  "  Unless,  indeed,  this  is  a 
deliberate  joke,  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  lielieve  that  men  so 
intelligent  as  those  present  are,  or  seem  to  be,  can  venture  to 
declare  and  assert  that  this  is  not  a  basin,  and  that  not  a  pack- 
saddle  ;  but  as  I  perceive  that  they  do  assert  and  declare  it,  I 
can  only  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  is  some  mystery  in 
this  persistence  in  what  is  so  opposed  to  the  evidence  of  ex- 
perience and  truth  itself ;    for  I   swear  by  "  —  and  here  he 

*  Prov.  204.  "  Laws  go  as  kings  like  :  "  a  very  old  proverb,  said  to  owe 
its  origin  to  the  summary  manner  in  which  Alfonso  VI.  at  Toledo  settled 
the  question  a«  to  wliicli  of  the  rival  rituals,  the  French  or  the  Musarabic, 
was  to  be  adopted.  It  was  agreed  to  try  them  by  the  test  of  fire,  and  the 
latter  came  out  victorious,  on  which  the  king,  who  favored  the  other,  fiung 
it  back  into  the  flames. 


CHAPTER    XLV.  387 

rapped  out  a  ronnrt  oath  —  "  all  the  people  in  the  world  will 
not  make  me  believe  that  this  is  not  a  barber's  basin  and  that 
a  jackass's  pack-saddle." 

"  It  might  easily  be  a  she-ass's,"  observed  the  curate. 

"  It  is  all  the  same,"  said  the  servant ;  "  that  is  not  the  point ; 
but  whether  it  is  oris  not  a  pack-saddle,  as  your  worsliips  say." 

On  hearing  this  one  of  the  newly  arrived  officers  of  the 
Brotherhood,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  dispute  and  con- 
troversy, unable  to  restrain  his  anger  and  impatience,  ex- 
claimed, ''  It  is  a  pack-saddle  as  sure  as  iny  father  is  my 
father,  and  whoever  has  said  or  Avill  say  anything  else  must 
be  drunk." 

"  You  lie  like  a  rascally  clown,"  returned  Don  Quixote;  and 
lifting  his  pike,  which  he  had  never  let  out  of  his  hand,  he 
delivered  such  a  blow  at  his  head  that,  had  not  the  officer 
dodged  it,  it  would  have  stretched  him  at  full  length.  The 
pike  was  shivered  in  pieces  against  the  ground;  and  the  rest  of 
the  officers,  seeing  their  comrade  assaulted,  raised  a  shout,  call- 
ing for  help  for  the  Holy  Brotherhood.  The  landlord,  who  was 
of  the  fraternity,  ran  at  once  to  fetch  his  staff  of  office  and  his 
sword,  and  ranged  himself  on  the  side  of  his  comrades  ;  the 
servants  of  Don  Luis  clustered  round  him,  lest  he  should  escape 
from  them  in  the  confusion ;  the  barl)er,  seeing  the  house 
turned  upside  down,  once  more  laid  hold  of  his  pack-saddle  and 
Sancho  did  the  same ;  Don  Quixote  drew  his  SAVord,  and 
charged  the  officers  ;  Don  Luis  cried  out  to  his  servants  to 
leave  him  alone  and  go  and  help  Don  Quixote,  and  Cardenio 
and  Don  Fernando,  who  were  supporting  him ;  the  curate  was 
shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  the  landlady  was  screaming, 
her  daughter  Avas  wailing,  Maritornes  Avas  Aveeping,  Dorothea 
Avas  aghast,  Luscinda  terror-stricken,  and  Dona  Clara  in  a  faint. 
The  barber  cudgelled  Sancho,  and  Sancho  pommelled  the 
barber  ;  Don  Luis  gave  one  of  his  servants,  Avho  A^entured  to 
catch  hini  by  the  arm  to  keep  him  from  escaping,  a  cuff  that 
bathed  his  teeth  in  blood  ;  the  judge  took  his  part ;  Don  Fer- 
nando had  got  one  of  the  officers  doAvn  and  Avas  belaboring  him 
heartily ;  the  landlord  raised  his  voice  again  calling  for  help 
for  the  Holy  Brotherhood  ;  so  that  the  whole  inn  was  nothing 
but  cries,  shouts,  shrieks,  confusion,  terror,  dismay,  mishaps, 
SAvord-cuts,  fisticuffs,  cudgellings,  kicks,  and  bloodshed ;  and  in 
the  midst  of  all  this  chaos,  com})lication,  and  general  entangle- 
ment, Don  Quixote   took  it  into  his  head  that  he  had  been 


388  DON    QUIXOTE. 

plunged  into  tlie  tliick  of  tlie  discord  of  Agraniante's  camp ;  ^ 
and,  in  a  voice  tliat  shook  the  inn  like  thunder,  he  cried  .out, 
"  Hold  all,  let  all  sheathe  their  swords,  let  all  be  calm  and 
attend  to  me  as  they  value  their  lives  ! " 

All  paused  at  his  mighty  voice,  and  he  went  on  to  say,  "  Did 
I  not  tell  you,  sirs,  that  this  castle  was  enchanted,  and  that  a 
legion  or  so  of  devils  dwelt  in  it  ?  In  proof  Avhereof  I  call 
upon  you  to  behold  with  your  own  eyes  how  the  discord  of 
Agramante's  camp  has  come  hither,  and  been  transferred  into 
the  midst  of  us.  See  how  they  fight,  there  for  the  sword,  here 
for  the  horse,  on  that  side  for  the  eagle,  on  this  for  the  helmet ; 
we  are  all  fighting,  and  all  at  cross  purposes.  Come  then,  you, 
sefior  judge,  and  you,  seiior  curate  ;  let  the  one  represent  King 
Agramante  and  the  other  King  Sobrino,  and  make  peace 
among  us  ;  for  by  God  Almighty  it  is  a  sorry  business  that  so 
many  persons  of  quality  as  we  are  should  slay  one  another  for 
such  trifling  cause." 

The  officers,  who  did  not  understand  Don  Quixote's  mode  of 
speaking,  and  found  themselves  roughly  handled  by  Don  Fer- 
nando, Cardenio,  and  their  companions,  were  not  to  be  ap- 
peased ;  the  barber  was,  however,  for  both  his  beard  and  his 
pack-saddle  were  the  worse  for  the  struggle  ;  Sancho  like  a 
good  servant  obeyed  the  slightest  word  of  his  master  ;  while 
the  four  servants  of  Don  Luis  kept  quiet  when  they  saw  how 
little  they  gained  by  not  being  so.  The  landlord  alone  insisted 
upon  it  that  they  must  punish  the  insolence  of  this  madman, 
Avho  at  every  turn  raised  a  disturbance  in  the  inn  ;  but  at 
length  the  uproar  was  stilled  for  the  present ;  the  pack-saddle 
remained  a  caparison  till  the  day  of  judgment,  and  the  basin 
a  helmet  and  the  inn  a  castle  in  Don  Quixote's  imagination. 

All  having  been  now  pacified  and  made  friends  by  the  per- 
suasion of  the  judge  and  the  curate,  the  servants  of  Don  Luis 
began  again  to  urge  him  to  return  with  them  at  once  ;  and 
while  he  was  discussing  the  matter  with  them,  the  judge  took 
counsel  with  Don  Fernando,  Cardenio,  and  the  curate  as  to 
what  he  ought  to  do  in  the  case,  telling  them  how  it  stood,  and 
what  Don  Luis  had  said  to  him.  It  was  agreed  at  length  that 
Don  Fernando  should  tell  the  servants  of  Don  Luis  who  he 
was,  and  that  it  Avas  his  desire  that  Don  Luis  should  accom- 

'  V.  Orlando  Fiirioso^  canto  xxvii.  Agramante  was  the  leader  of  the 
Mohammedan  kings  and  princes  assembled  at  the  siege  of  Paris,  of  whom 
Sobrino  was  one. 


CHAPTER    XLV.  389 

pauy  him  to  Andalusia,  Avhere  he  woiikl  receive  from  the  mar- 
quis his  ])rother  the  welcome  his  quality  entitled  him  to;  for, 
otherwise,  it  was  easy  to  see  from  the  determination  of  Don 
Luis  that  he  would  not  return  to  his  father  at  present,  though 
they  tore  him  to  pieces.  On  learning  the  rank  of  Don  Fer- 
nando and  the  resolution  of  Don  Li;is  the  four  then  settled  it 
between  themselves  that  three  of  them  should  return  to  tell 
his  father  how  matters  stood,  and  that  the  other  should  remain 
to  wait  upon  Don  Luis  and  not  leave  him  until  they  came  back 
for  him,  or  his  father's  orders  were  known.  Thus  by  the  author- 
ity of  Agraiuante  and  the  wisdom  of  King  Sobrino  all  this  com- 
plication of  disputes  was  arranged  ;  biit  the  enemy  of  concord 
and  hater  of  peace,  feeling  himself  slighted  and  made  a  fool 
of,  and  seeing  how  little  he  had  gained  after  having  involved 
them  all  in  such  an  elaljorate  entanglement,  resolved  to  try  his 
hand  once  more  l)y  stirring  iq)  fresh  quarrels  and  disturbances. 

It  came  about  in  this  wise  :  the  oificers  were  pacified  on 
learning  the  rank  of  those  with  whom  they  had  been  engaged, 
and  Avithdrew  from  the  contest,  considering  that  Avhatever  the 
result  might  be  they  were  likely  to  get  the  Avorst  of  the  battle  ; 
but  one  of  them,  the  one  who  had  been  thrashed  and  kicked 
by  Don  Fernando,  recollected  that  among  some  warrants  he 
carried  for  the  arrest  of  certain  delinquents,  he  had  one  against 
Don  Quixote,  Avliom  the  Holy  Brotherhood  had  ordered  to  be 
arrested  for  setting  the  galley  slaves  free,  as  Sancho  had,  with 
very  good  reason,  apprehended.  Suspecting  how  it  was,  then, 
he  wished  to  satisfy  himself  as  to  whether  Don  Quixote's  feat- 
ures corresponded  ;  and  taking  a  parchment  out  of  his  bosom 
he  lit  upon  Avliat  he  was  in  search  of,  and  setting  himself  to 
read  it  deliberately,  for  he  was  not  a  quick  reader,  as  he  made 
out  each  word  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Don  Quixote,  and  went  on 
comparing  the  description  in  the  warrant  with  his  face,  and 
discovered  that  beyond  all  doubt  he  was  the  person  described 
in  it.  As  soon  as  he  had  satisfied  himself,  folding  wp  the 
parchment,  he  took  the  warrant  in  his  left  hand  and  with  his 
right  seized  L^on  Quixote  by  the  collar  so  tightl}'  that  he  did 
not  allow  hini  to  breathe,  and  shouted  aloud,  ^'  Help  for  the 
Holy  Brotherhood  !  and  that  you  may  see  I  demand  it  in  ear- 
nest, read  this  warrant  which  says  this  highwayman  is  to  be 
arrested." 

The  curate  took  the  warrant  and  saw  that  what  the  officer 
said  Avas  true,  and  that  it  agreed  Avith  Don  Quixote's  appear- 


390  DON    QUIXOTE. 

ance,  avIio,  on  liis  part,  when  he  found  himself  roiighly  handled 
by  this  rascally  clown,  worked  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  wrath, 
and  all  his  joints  cracking  with  rage,  with  both  hands  seized 
the  officer  l)y  the  throat  with  all  his  might,  so  that  had  he  not 
been  helped  by  his  comrades  he  would  have  yielded  up  his  life 
ere  Don  Quixote  released  his  hold.  The  landlord,  who  had 
perforce  to  support  his  brother  officers,  ran  at  once  to  aid  them. 
The  landlady,  wdien  she  saw  her  husband  engaged  in  a  fresh 
quarrel,  lifted  up  her  voice  afresh,  and  its  note  was  immedi- 
ately caught  up  by  Maritornes  and  her  daughter,  calling  upon 
Heaven  and  all  present  for  help ;  and  Sancho,  seeing  what  was 
going  on,  exclaimed,  ''  By  the  Lord,  it  is  quite  true  what  my 
master  says  about  the  enchantments  of  this  castle,  for  it  is  im- 
possible to  live  an  hour  in  peace  in  it !  " 

Don  Fernando  parted  the  officer  and  Don  Quixote,  and  to 
their  mutual  contentment  made  them  relax  the  grip  by  which 
they  held,  the  one  the  coat  collar,  the  other  the  throat  of  his 
adversary ;  for  all  this,  however,  the  officers  did  not  cease 
to  demand  their  ynisoner  and  call  on  them  to  help,  and  deliver 
him  over  bound  into  their  power,  as  was  required  for  the 
service  of  the  King  and  of  the  Holy  Brotherhood,  on  whose  be- 
half they  again  demanded  aid  and  assistance  to  effect  the  capt- 
ure of  this  robber  and  footpad  of  the  highways  and  byways. 

Don  Quixote  smiled  when  he  heard  these  words,  and  said 
very  calmly,  "  Come  now,  base,  ill-born  brood  ;  call  ye  it  high- 
way robbery  to  give  freedom  to  those  in  bondage,  to  release 
the  captives,  to  succor  the  miserable,  to  raise  up  the  fallen,  to 
relieve  the  needy  ?  Infamous  beings,  who  by  your  vile  grovel- 
ling intellects  deserve  that  Heaven  should  not  make  known  to 
you  the  virtue  that  lies  in  knight-errantry,  or  show  you  the  sin 
and  ignorance  in  which  ye  lie  when  ye  refuse  to  respect  the 
shadow,  not  to  say  the  presence,  of  any  knight-errant !  Come 
now  ;  band,  not  of  officers,  but  of  thieves  ;  footpads  with  the 
license  of  the  Holy  Brotherhood ;  tell  me  who  was  the  ignora- 
mus who  signed  a  warrant  of  arrest  against  such  a  knight  as  I 
am  ?  Who  was  he  that  did  not  know  that  knights-errant  are 
independent  of  all  jurisdictions,  that  their  law  is  their  sword, 
their  charter  their  prowess,  and  their  edicts  their  will  ?  Vfho, 
I  say  again,  was  the  fool  that  knows  not  that  there  are  no 
letters  patent  of  nobility  that  confer  such  privileges  or  exemp- 
tions as  a  knight-errant  acquires  the  day  he  is  dubbed  a  knight, 
and  devotes  himself  to  the  arduous  calling  of  chivalry  ?     "What 


CHAPTER    XLVI.  391 

knight-errant  ever  paid  poll-tax,  duty,  queen's  pin-money,  king's 
dues,  toll  or  ferry  ?  What  tailor  ever  took  payment  of  him 
for  making  his  clothes  ?  What  castellan  that  received  him  in 
his  castle  ever  made  him  pay  his  shot  ?  ^  What  king  did  not 
seat  him  at  his  table  '!  What  damsel  was  not  enamoured  of 
him  and  did  not  yield  herself  up  wholly  to  his  will  or  pleas- 
ure ?  And,  lastly,  what  knight-errant  has  there  been,  is  there, 
or  will  there  ever  be  in  the  world,  not  bold  enough  to  give, 
single-handed,  four  hundred  cudgellings  to  four  hundred  officers 
of  the  Holy  Brotherhood  if  they  come  in  his  way  ?  " 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

OF  THE  END  OF  THE  NOTABLE  ADVENTURE  OP  THE  OFFICERS 
OF  THE  HOLY  BROTHERHOOD  ;  AND  OF  THE  GREAT  FEROC- 
ITY   OF    OUR    WORTHY    KNIGHT,    DON    QUIXOTE. 

While  Don  Quixote  was  talking  in  this  strain,  the  curate 
was  endeavoring  to  persuade  the  officers  that  he  was  out  of  his 
senses,  as  they  might  perceive  by  his  deeds  and  his  words, 
and  that  they  need  not  press  the  matter  any  further,  for  even 
if  they  arrested  him  and  carried  him  off,  they  would  have  to 
release  him  by-and-by  as  a  madman ;  to  which  the  holder  of 
the  warrant  replied  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  inquiring 
into  Don  Quixote's  madness,  but  only  to  execute  his  superior's 
orders,  and  that  once  taken  they  might  let  him  go  three  hun- 
dred times  if  they  liked. 

"  For  all  that,"  said  the  curate,  "  you  must  not  take  hini 
away  this  time,  nor  will  he,  it  is  my  opinion,  let  himself  be 
taken  away." 

In  short,  the  curate  used  such  arguments,  and  Don  Quixote 
did  such  mad  things,  that  the  officers  would  have  been  more 
mad  than  he  was  if  they  had  not  perceived  his  want  of  wits, 
and  so  they  thought  it  best  to  allow  themselves  to  be  pacified, 
and  even  to  act  as  peacemakers  between  the  barber  and  Sancho 
Panza,  who  still  continued  their  altercation  with  much  bitter- 
ness. In  the  end  they,  as  officers  of  justice,  settled  the  ques- 
tion by  arbitration  in  such  a  manner  that  both  sides  were,  if 
not  perfectly  contented,  at  least  to  some  extent  satisfied  ;  for 

*  Escote ;  old  French  cscot. 


392  DON    QUIXOTE. 

tliey  changed  the  pack-saddles,  but  not  the  girths  or  head- 
stalls ;  and  as  to  Manibrino's  helmet,  the  curate,  under  the 
rose  and  without  Don  Quixote's  knowing  it,  paid  eight  reals 
for  the  basin,  and  the  barber  executed  a  full  receipt  and  en- 
gagement to  make  no  further  demand  then  or  thenceforth  for 
evermore,  amen.  These  two  disputes,  which  were  the  most 
important  and  gravest,  being  settled,  it  only  remained  for  the 
servants  of  Don  Luis  to  consent  that  three  of  them  should  re- 
turn while  one  was  left  to  accompany  him  whither  Don  Fer- 
nando desired  to  take  him ;  and  good  luck  and  better  fortune, 
having  already  begun  to  solve  difficulties  and  remove  obstruc- 
tions in  favor  of  the  lovers  and  warriors  of  the  inn,  were 
pleased  to  persevere  and  bring  everything  to  a  happy  issue ; 
for  the  servants  agreed  to  do  as  Don  Luis  wished ;  which  gave 
Dona  Clara  such  happiness  that  no  one  could  have  looked  into 
her  face  just  then  without  seeing  the  joy  of  her  heart.  Zoraida, 
though  she  did  not  fully  comprehend  all  she  saw,  was  grave  or 
gay  without  knowing  why,  as  she  watched  and  studied  the 
various  countenances,  but  particularly  her  Spaniard's,  whom 
she  followed  with  her  eyes  and  clung  to  with  her  soul.  The 
gift  and  compensation  which  the  curate  gave  the  barber  had 
not  escaped  the  landlord's  notice,  and  he  demanded  Don  Qui- 
xote's reckoning,  together  with  the  amount  of  the  damage  to  his 
wine-skins,  and  the  loss  of  his  wine,  swearing  that  neither 
Eocinante  nor  Sancho's  ass  should  leave  the  inn  until  he  had 
been  paid  to  the  very  last  farthing.  The  curate  settled  all 
amicably,  and  Don  Fernando  paid;  thoiigh  the  judge  had  also 
vefy  readily  offered  to  pay  the  score ;  and  all  became  so  peace- 
ful and  quiet  that  the  inn  no  longer  reminded  one  of  the  dis- 
cord of  Agramante's  camp,  as  Don  Quixote  said,  but  of  the 
peace  and  traufj^uillity  of  the  days  of  Octavianus  :  ^  for  all 
which  it  was  the  universal  opinion  that  their  thanks  were  due 
to  the  great  zeal  and  eloquence  of  the  curate,  and  to  the  unex- 
am})led  generosity  of  Don  Feruando. 

Finding  himself  now  clear  and  quit  of  all  quarrels,  his 
squire's  as  well  as  his  own,  Don  Quixote  considered  that  it 
would  be  advisable  to  continue  the  journey  he  had  begun,  and 
bring  to  a  close  that  great  adventure  for  which  he  had  been 
called  and  chosen  ;  and  with  this  high  resolve  he  went  and 
knelt  before  Dorothea,  who,  however,  would  not  allow  him  to 
utter  a  word  until  he  had  risen ;  so  to  obey  her  he  rose,  and 

'  i.e.  Augustus. 


CHAPTER    XL VI.  393 

said,  "  It  is  a  common  proverb,  fair  lady,  that  '  diligence  is  the 
mother  of  good  fortune,'  ^  and  experience  has  often  shown  in 
important  affairs  that  the  earnestness  of  the  negotiator  brings 
the  doubtfnl  case  to  a  successful  termination ;  but  in  nothing 
does  this  truth  show  itself  more  plainly  than  in  Avar,  where 
quickness  and  activity  forestall  the  devices  of  the  enemy,  and 
win  the  victory  before  the  foe  has  time  to  defend  himself.  All 
this  I  say,  exalted  and  esteemed  lady,  because  it  seems  to  me 
that  for  us  to  remain  any  longer  in  this  castle  now  is  useless, 
and  may  be  injurious  to  us  in  a  way  that  we  shall  find  out  some 
day ;  for  who  knows  but  that  your  enemy  the  giant  may  have 
learned  by  means  of  secret  and  diligent  spies  that  I  am  going 
to  destroy  him,  and  if  the  opportimity  be  given  him  he  may 
seize  it  to  fortify  himself  in  some  impregnable  castle  or  strong- 
hold, against  which  all  my  efforts  and  the  might  of  my  inde- 
fatigable arm  may  avail  but  little  ?  Therefore,  lady,  let  us,  as 
I  say,  forestall  his  schemes  by  our  activity,  and  let  us  depart 
at  once  in  quest  of  fair  fortune ;  for  your  highness  is  only  kept 
from  enjoying  it  as  fully  as  you  could  desire  by  my  delay  in 
encountering  your  adversary." 

Don  Quixote  held  his  peace  and  said  no  more,  calmly  await- 
ing the  reply  of  the  beauteous  princess,  who,  with  commanding- 
dignity  and  in  a  Ityle  adapted  to  Don  Quixote's  own,  replied 
to  him  in  these  words,  "  I  give  you  thanks,  sir  knight,  for 
the  eagerness  you,  like  a  good  knight  to  whom  it  is  a  nat- 
ural obligation  to  succor  the  orphan  and  the  needy,  display 
to  afford  me  aid  in  my  sore  trouble  ;  and  Heaven  grant  that 
your  wishes  and  mine  may  be  realized,  so  that  you  may  see 
that  there  are  women  in  this  world  capable  of  gratitude ;  as  to 
my  departure,  let  it  be  forthwith,  for  I  have  no  will  but  yours ; 
dispose  of  me  entirely  in  accordance  with  your  good  pleasure  ; 
for  she  who  has  once  intrusted  to  you  the  defence  of  her  per- 
son, and  placed  in  your  hands  the  recovery  of  her  dominions, 
must  not  think  of  offering  opposition  to  that  which  your  wis- 
dom may  ordain." 

"  On,  then,  in  God's  name,"  said  Don  Quixote  ;  "  for,  when 
a  lady  humbles  herself  to  me,  I  will  not  lose  the  opportunity 
of  raising  her  up  and  placing  her  on  the  throne  of  her  ances- 
tors. Let  us  depart  at  once,  for  the  common  saying  that  in 
delay  there  is  danger,'-^  lends  spurs  to  my  eagerness  to  take  the 
road ;  and  as  neither  Heaven  has  created  nor  hell  seen  any  that 

'Prov.  77.  *  Prov.  222. 


394  DON    QUIXOTE. 

can  daunt  or  intimidate  me,  saddle  Eocinante,  Sancho,  and  get 
ready  thy  ass  and  the  queen's  palfrey,  and  let  us  take  leave  of 
the  castellan  and  these  gentlemen,  and  go  hence  this  very 
instant." 

Sancho,  who  was  standing  by  all  the  time,  said,  shaking  his 
head,  '■'  Ah  !  master,  master,  there  is  more  mischief  in  the  vil- 
lage than  one  hears  of,^  begging  all  good  bodies'  pardon." 

"  What  mischief  can  there  be  in  any  village,  or  in  all  the 
cities  of  the  world,  you  booby,  that  can  hurt  my  reputation  ?  " 
said  Don  Quixote. 

'^  If  your  worship  is  angry,"  replied  Sancho,  "  I  will  hold 
my  tongue  and  leave  unsaid  what,  as  a  good  squire,  I  am 
bound  to  say,  and  what  a  good  servant  should  tell  his  master." 

"  Say  what  thou  wilt,"  returned  Don  Quixote,  "  provided  thy 
words  be  not  meant  to  work  upon  my  fears  ;  for  thou,  when 
thou  fearest,  art  behaving  like  thyself  ;  but  I  like  myself,  when 
I  fear  not." 

"  It  is  nothing  of  the  sort,  as  I  am  a  sinner  before  God," 
said  Sancho,  "  but  that  I  take  it  to  be  sure  and  certain  that 
this  lady,  who  calls  herself  queen  of  the  great  kingdom  of 
Micomicon,  is  no  more  so  than  my  mother ;  for,  if  she  was 
what  she  says,  she  would  not  go  rublnng  noses  with  one  that 
is  here  every  instant  and  behind  every  doon" 

Dorothea  turned  red  at  Sancho's  words,  for  the  truth  was 
that  her  husband,  Don  Fernando,  had  now  and  then,  when  the 
others  were  not  looking,  gathered  from  her  lips  some  of  the 
reward  his  love  had  earned,  and  Sancho  seeing  this,  had  con- 
sidered that  such  freedom  was  more  like  a  courtesan  than  a 
queen  of  a  great  kingdom ;  she,  however,  being  unable  or  not 
caring  to  answer  him,  allowed  him  to  proceed,  and  he  contin- 
ued, "  This  I  say,  seiior,  because,  if  after  we  have  travelled 
roads  and  highways,  and  passed  bad  nights  and  worse  days, 
one  who  is  now  enjoying  himself  in  this  inn  is  to  reap  the 
fruit  of  our  labors,  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  be  in  a  hurry  to 
saddle  Eocinante,  put  the  pad  on  the  ass,  or  get  ready  the  pal- 
frey ;  for  it  wi}l  be  better  for  us  to  stay  quiet,  and  let  every 
jade  mind  her  spinning,^  and  let  us  go  to  dinner." 

Good  God,  what  was  the  indignation  of  Don  Quixote  when  he 
heard  the  audacious  words  of  his  squire  !  So  great  was  it,  that 
in  a  voice  inarticulate  with  rage,  with  a  stammering  tongue, 

'  Prov.  9.  Generally  mistranslated  "  than  is  dreamt  of,"  as  if  it  was 
suena  instead  of  suena.  ^  I'rov.  196. 


CHAPTER    XLVI.  395 

and  eyes  that  flashed  living  fire,  he  exclaimed,  "  Rascally 
clown,  boorish,  insolent,  and  ignorant,  ill-spoken,  foul-mouth  eel, 
impudent  backbiter  and  slanderer !  Hast  thou  dared  to  utter 
such  words  in  my  presence  and  in  that  of  these  illustrious 
ladies  ?  Hast  thou  dared  to  harbor  such  gross  and  shameless 
thoughts  in  thy  miKldled  imagination  ?  Begone  from  my  pres- 
ence, thou  born  monster,  storehouse  of  lies,  hoard  of  untruths, 
garner  of  knaveries,  inventor  of  scandals,  publisher  of  absurd- 
ities, enemy  of  the  respect  due  to  royal  personages !  Begone, 
show  thyself  no  more  before  me  under  pain  of  my  wrath  ;  " 
and  so  saying  he  knitted  his  brows,  puffed  out  his  cheeks,  gazed 
around  him,  and  stamped  on  the  ground  violently  with  his 
right  foot,  showing  in  every  way  the  rage  that  was  pent  up  in 
his  heart ;  and  at  his  words  and  furious  gestures  Sancho  was 
so  scared  and  terrified  that  he  would  have  been  glad  if  the 
earth  had  opened  that  instant  and  swallowed  him,  and  his  only 
thought  was  to  turn  round  and  make  his  escape  from  the 
angry  presence  of  his    master. 

But  the  ready-witted  Dorothea,  who  by  this  time  so  well  un- 
derstood Don  Quixote's  humor,  said,  to  mollify  his  wrath,  "  Be 
not  irritated  at  the  absurdities  your  good  squire  has  uttered, 
Sir  Knight  of  the  Bueful  Countenance,  for  perhaps  he  did  not 
utter  them  without  cause,  and  from  his  good  sense  and  Chris- 
tian conscience  it  is  not  likely  that  he  would  bear  false  witness 
against  any  one.  We  may  therefore  believe,  without  any  hesi- 
tation, that  since,  as  you  say,  sir  knight,  everything  in  this 
castle  goes  and  is  brought  about  by  means  of  enchantment, 
Sancho,  I  say,  may  possibly  have  seen,  through  this  dialjolical 
medium,  what  he  says  he  saw  so  much  to  the  detriment  of  my 
modesty." 

"  I  swear  by  God  Omnipotent,"  exclaimed  Don  Quixote  at 
this,  "  your  highness  has  hit  the  point ;  and  that  some  vile 
illusion  must  have  come  before  this  sinner  of  a  Sancho,  that 
made  him  see  what  it  woidd  have  been  impossible  to  see  by  any 
other  means  than  enchantments  ;  for  I  know  well  enough,  from 
the  poor  fellow's  goodness  and  harmlessness,  that  he  is  inca- 
pable of  bearing  false  witness  against  anybody." 

"  True,  no  doubt,"  said  Don  Fernando,  "  for  which  reason, 
Seiior  Don  Quixote,  you  ought  to  forgive  him  and  restore  him 
to  the  bosom  of  your  favor,  sicut  erat  in  principio,  before  illu- 
sions of  this  sort  had  taken  away  his  senses." 

Don   Quixote   said  he  was  ready  to  pardon  him,  and  the 


396  DON    QUIXOTE. 

curate  went  for  Sancho,  who  came  in  very  humbly,  and  falling 
on  his  knees  begged  for  the  hand  of  his  master,  who  having  pre- 
sented it  to  him  and  allowed  him  to  kiss  it,  gave  him  his  bless- 
ing and  said,  '^  JSTow,  Sancho  my  son,  thou  wilt  be  convinced  of 
the  truth  of  what  I  have  many  a  time  told  thee,  that  every 
thing  in  this  castle  is   done  by  means  of  enchantment." 

"  So  it  is,  I  believCj"  said  Sancho,  "  except  the  affair  of  the 
blanket,  which  came  to  pass  in  reality  by  ordinary  means." 

"  Believe  it  not,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "  for  had  it  been  so, 
I  would  have  avenged  thee  that  instant,  or  even  now  ;  but 
neither  then  nor  now  could  I,  nor  have  I  seen  any  one  upon 
whom  to  avenge  thy   wrong." 

They  were  all  eager  to  know  what  the  affair  of  the  blanket 
was,  and  the  landlord  gave  them  a,  minute  account  of  Sancho's 
flights,  at  which  they  laughed  not  a  little,  and  at  which  Sancho 
would  have  been  no  less  out  of  countenance  had  not  his  master 
once  more  assured  him  it  was  all  enchantment.  For  all  that 
his  simplicity  never  reached  so  high  a  pitch  that  he  could  per- 
suade himself  it  was  not  the  plain  and  simple  truth,  without 
any  deception  whatever  about  it,  that  he  had  been  blanketed 
by  beings  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  not  by  visionary  and  imagi- 
nary phantoms,  as  his  master  believed  and  protested. 

The  illustrious  company  had  now  been  two  days  in  the  inn ; 
and  as  it  seemed  to  them  time  to  depart,  they  devised  a  plan 
so  that,  without  giving  Dorothea  and  Don  Fernando  the  trouble 
of  going  back  with  Don  Quixote  to  his  village  under  pretence 
of  restoring  Queen  Micomicona,  the  curate  and  the  barber 
might  carry  him  away  with  them  as  they  proposed,  and  the 
curate  be  able  to  take  his  madness  in  hand  at  home  ;  and  in 
pursuance  of  their  plan  they  arranged  with  the  owner  of  an 
ox-cart  who  happened  to  be  passing  that  way  to  carry  him 
after  this  fashion.  They  constructed  a  kind  of  cage  with 
wooden  bars,  large  enough  to  hold  Don  Quixote  comfortably  ; 
and  then  Don  Fernando  and  his  companions,  the  servants  of 
Don  Luis,  and  the  officers  of  the  Brotherhood,  together  with 
the  landlord,  by  the  directions  and  advice  of  the  curate,  cov- 
ered their  faces  and  disguised  themselves,  some  in  one  way, 
some  in  another,  so  as  to  appear  to  Don  Quixote  quite  different 
from  the  persons  he  had  seen  in  the  castle.  This  done,  in  pro- 
found silence  they  entered  the  room  where  he  was  asleep, 
taking  his  rest  after  the  past  frays,  and  advancing  to  where 
he  Avas  sleeping  tranquilly,  not  dreaming  of  anything  of  the 


CHAPTER    XLVL  397 

kind  happening,  tliey  seized  him  firmly  and  bound  liim  fast 
hand  and  foot,  so  that,  when  he  awoke  startled,  he  was  nuable 
to  move,  and  could  only  marvel  and  wonder  at  the  strange  fig- 
ures he  saw  before  him  ;  upon  which  he  at  once  gave  way  to 
the  idea  which  his  crazed  fancy  invariably  conjured  up  before 
him,  and  took  it  into  his  head  that  all  these  shapes  were  phan- 
toms of  the  enchanted  castle,  and  that  he  himself  was  unques- 
tionably enchanted  as  he  could  neither  move  nor  help  himself ; 
precisely  what  the  curate,  the  concocter  of  the  scheiae,  ex- 
pected would  happen.'^  Of  all  that  were  there  Sancho  was  the 
only  one  who  was  at  once  in  his  senses  and  in  his  own  ju'oper 
character,  and  he,  though  he  was  within  very  little  of  sharing 
his  master's  infirmity,  did  not  fail  to  perceive  who  all  these 
disguised  figures  were  ;  but  he  did  not  dare  to  0})en  his  lips 
until  he  saw  what  came  of  this  assault  and  capture  of  his 
master  ;  nor  did  the  latter  utter  a  word,  waiting  to  see  the 
upshot  of  his  mishap ;  which  was  that,  bringing  in  the  cage, 
they  shut  him  up  in  it  and  nailed  the  bars  so  firmly  that  they 
could  not  be  easily  burst  open.  They  then  took  him  on  their 
shoulders,  and  as  they  passed  out  of  the  room  an  awful  voice 
—  as  much  so  as  the  barber,  not  he  of  the  pack-saddle  but  the 
other,  was  able  to  make  it  —  was  heard  to  say,  "O  Knight  of 
the  Rueful  Countenance,  let  not  this  captivity  in  which  thou 
art  placed  attlict  thee,  for  this  must  needs  be,  for  the  more 
speedy  accomplishment  of  the  adventure  in  which  thy  great 
heart  has  engaged  thee  ;  the  which  shall  be  accomplished  when 
the  raging  Manchegan  lion  and  the  white  Tobosan  dove  shall 
be  linked  together,  having  first  humbled  their  haughty  necks 
to  the  gentle  yoke  of  matrimony.  And  from  this  marvellous 
luiion  shall  come  forth  to  the  light  of  the  world  brave  whelps, 
that  shall  rival  the  ravening  claws  of  their  valiant  father ;  and 
this  shall  come  to  pass  ere  the  pursuer  of  the  flying  nym})h  shall 
in  his  swift  natural  coiirse  have  twice  visited  the  starry  signs. 
And  thou,  0  most  noble  and  obedient  srpure  that  ever  bore 
sword  at  side,  beard  on  face,  or  nose  to  smell  with,  be  not  dis- 
mayed or  grieved  to  see  the  flower  of  knight-errantry  carried 
away  thus  before  thy  very  eyes  ;  for  soon,  if  it  so  please  the 
Framer  of  the  universe,  thou  shalt  see  thyself  exalted  to  such 
a  height  that  thou  shalt  not  know  thyself,  and  the  promises 
which  thy  good  master  has  made  thee  shall  not  prove  false  ; 

'  This  resembles  the  scene  in  the  Morgante  Maggiore  (xii.  88),  where 
Orhiudo  is  seized  and  l)ound  by  the  pagans. 


398  DON    QUIXOTE. 

and  I  assure  thee,  on  the  authority  of  the  sage  Mentironiana/ 
that  thy  wages  shall  be  paid  thee  as  thou  shalt  see  in  due 
season.  Follow  then  the  footsteps  of  the  valiant  enchanted 
knight,  for  it  is  expedient  that  thou  shouldst  go  to  the  destina- 
tion assigned  to  both  of  you  ;  and  as  it  is  not  permitted  to  me 
to  Siiy  more,  God  be  with  thee  ;  for  I  return  to  that  place  I  wot 
of ;  "  and  as  he  brought  the  prophecy  to  a  close  he  raised  his 
voice  to  a  high  pitch,  and  then  lowered  it  to  such  a  soft  tone, 
that  even  those  who  knew  it  was  all  a  joke  were  almost  in- 
clined to  take  what  they  heard  seriously. 

Don  Quixote  was  comforted  by  the  prophecy  he  heard,  for 
he  at  once  comprehended  its  meaning  perfectly  and  perceived 
it  was  promised  to  him  that  he  should  see  himself  united  in 
holy  and  lawful  matrimony  with  his  beloved  Dulcinea  del  To- 
boso,  from  whose  blessed  womb  should  proceed  the  whelps,  his 
sons,  to  the  eternal  glory  of  La  Mancha  ;  and  being  thoroughly 
and  firmly  persuaded  of  this,  he  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  with 
a  deep  sigh  exclaimed,  "  0  thou,  whoever  thou  art,  who  hast 
foretold  me  so  much  good,  I  im])lore  of  thee  that  on  my  part 
thou  entreat  that  sage  enchanter  who  takes  charge  of  my  in- 
terests, that  he  leave  me  not  to  perish  in  this  captivity  in 
which  they  are  now  carrying  me  away,  ere  I  see  fulfilled  prom- 
ises so  joyful  and  incomparable  as  those  which  have  been  now 
made  me ;  for,  let  this  but  come  to  pass,  and  I  shall  glory  in 
the  pains  of  my  prison,  find  comfort  in  these  chains  wherewith 
they  bind  me,  and  regard  this  bed  whereon  they  stretch  me, 
not  as  a  hard  battlefield,  but  as  a  soft  and  happy  nuptial 
couch ;  and  touching  the  consolation  of  Sancho  Panza,  my 
squire,  I  rely  upon  his  goodness  and  rectitude  that  he  will  not 
desert  me  in  good  or  evil  fortune ;  for  if,  by  his  ill  luck  or 
mine,  it  may  not  happen  to  be  in  my  power  to  give  him  the 
island  I  have  promised,  or  any  equivalent  for  it,  at  least  his 
wages  shall  not  be  lost ;  for  in  my  will,  which  is  already  made,  I 
have  declared  the  sum  that  shall  be  paid  to  him,  measured,  not 
by  his  many  faithful  services,  but  by  the  means  at  my  dis- 
posal." 

Sancho  bowed  his  head  very  respectfully  and  kissed  both  his 
hands,  for  being  tied  together,  he  could  not  kiss  one ;  and  then 
the  apparitions  lifted  the  cage  upon  their  shoulders  and  fixed 
it  upon  the  ox-cart. 

'  A  name  formed  from  "  nientir,"  to  tell  lies. 


CHAPTER    XL VI I.  399 


CHAPTER     XLVII. 

OF  THE  STRANGE  MANNER  IN  WHICH  DON  QUIXOTE  OF  LA 
MANCHA  WAS  CARRIED  AWAY  ENCHANTED,  TOGETHER  WITH 
OTHER    REMARKABLE    INCIDENTS. 

When  Don  Quixote  saw  himself  caged  and  hoisted  on  the 
cart  in  this  way,  he  said,  "  Many  grave  histories  of  knights- 
errant  have  I  read  ;  but  never  yet  have  I  read,  seen,  or  heard 
of  their  carrying  off  enchanted  knights-errant  in  this  fashion, 
or  at  the  slow  pace  that  these  lazy,  sluggish  animals  promise  ; 
for  they  always  take  them  away  through  the  air  with  marvel- 
lous swiftness,  enveloped  in  a  dark  thick  cloud,  or  on  a  chariot 
of  fire,  or  it  may  be  on  some  hippogriff  or  other  beast  of  the 
kind ;  but  to  carry  me  off'  like  this  on  an  ox-cart !  By  God,  it 
puzzles  me  !  But  perhaps  the  chivalry  and  enchantments  of 
our  day  take  a  different  course  from  that  of  those  in  days  gone 
by;  and  it  may  be,  too,  that,  as  I  am  a  new  knight  in  the 
world,  and  the  first  to  revive  the  already  forgotten  calling  of 
knight-adventurers,  they  may  have  newly  invented  other  kinds 
of  enchantments  and  other  modes  of  carrying  off  the  enchanted. 
What  thinkest  thou  of  the  matter,  Sancho  my  son  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  answered  Sancho,  "  not  being 
as  well  read  as  your  worship  in  errant  writings  ;  but  for  all 
that  I  venture  to  say  and  swear  that  these  apparitions  that  are 
about  us  are  not  quite  Catholic." 

"  Catholic  !  "  said  Don  Quixote.  "  Father  of  me  !  how  can 
they  be  Catholic  when  they  are  all  devils  that  have  taken  fan- 
tastic shapes  to  come  and  do  this,  and  bring  me  to  this  condi- 
tion ?  And  if  thou  wouldst  prove  it,  touch  them,  and  feel 
them,  and  thou  wilt  find  they  have  only  bodies  of  air,  and  no 
consistency  except  in  appearance." 

"  By  God,  master,"  returned  Sancho,  "  I  have  touched  them 
already ;  and  that  devil,  that  goes  about  there  so  biisily,  has 
firm  flesh,  and  another  property  very  different  from  Avhat  I 
have  heard  say  devils  have,  for  by  all  accounts  they  all  sniell 
of  brimstone  and  other  bad  smells ;  but  this  one  smells  of 
amber  half  a  league  off."  Sancho  was  here  speaking  of  Don 
Fernando,  who,  like  a  gentleman  of  his  rank,  was  very  likely 
perfumed  as  Sancho  said. 

"  Marvel  not  at  that,  Sancho  my  friend,"  said  Don  Quixote ; 


400  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  for  let  me  tell  thee  devils  are  crafty ;  and  even  if  tliey  do 
cany  odors  about  with  them,  they  themselves  have  no  smell, 
because  they  are  spirits  ;  or,  if  they  have  any  smell,  they  can 
not  smell  of  anything  sweet,  but  of  something  lo\\\  and  fetid ; 
and  the  reason  is  that  as  they  carry  hell  with  them  wherever 
they  go,  and  can  get  no  ease  whatever  from  their  torments, 
and  as  a  sweet  smell  is  a  thing  that  gives  pleasure  and  enjoy- 
ment, it  is  impossible  that  they  can  smell  sweet ;  if,  then,  this 
devil  thou  speakest  of  seems  to  thee  to  smell  of  amber,  either 
thou  art  deceiving  thyself,  or  he  wants  to  deceive  thee  by 
making  thee  fancy  he  is  not  a  devil." 

Such  was  the  conversation  that  passed  between  master  and 
man;  and  Don  Fernando  and  Cardenio,  apprehensive  of  Sancho's 
making  a  complete  discovery  of  their  scheme,  towards  which 
he  had  already  gone  some  way,  resolved  to  hasten  their  depart- 
ure, and  calling  the  landlord  aside,  they  directed  him  to  saddle 
Rocinante  and  put  the  pack-saddle  on  Sancho's  ass,  which  he 
did  with  great  alacrity.  In  the  meantime  the  curate  had  made 
an  arrangement  with  the  officers  that  they  shoi;ld  bear  them 
company  as  far  as  his  village,  he  paying  them  so  much  a  day. 
Cardenio  hung  the  buckler  on  one  side  of  the  bow  of  Roci- 
nante's  saddle  and  the  basin  on  the  other,  and  by  signs  com- 
manded Sancho  to  mount  his  ass  and  take  Rocinante's  bridle, 
and  at  each  side  of  the  cart  he  placed  two  officers  with  their 
muskets  ;  ^  but  before  the  cart  was  put  in  motion,  out  came  the 
landlady  and  her  daughter  and  Maritornes  to  bid  Don  Quixote 
farewell,  pretending  to  weep  with  grief  at  his  misfortune ;  and 
to  them  Don  Quixote  said,  "  Weep  not,  good  ladies,  for  all 
these  mishaps  are  the  lot  of  those  who  follow  the  profession  I 
profess ;  and  if  these  reverses  did  not  befall  me  T  should  not 
esteem  myself  a  famous  knight-errant ;  for  such  things  never 
happen  to  knights  of  little  renown  and  fame,  because  nobody 
in  the  world  thinks  about  them ;  to  valiant  knights  they  do, 
for  these  are  envied  for  their  virtue  and  valor  by  many  princes 
and  other  knights  who  compass  the  destruction  of  the  worthy 
by  base  means.  Nevertheless,  virtue  is  of  herself  so  mighty, 
that,  in  spite  of  all  the  magic  that  Zoroastes  its  first  inventor 
knew,  she  will  come  victorious  out  of  every  trial,  and  shed  her 
light  upon  the  earth  as  the  sun  does  upon  the  heavens.     For- 

'  Here,  for  once,  Hartzenbuscb  has  overlooked  an  inconsistency.  In 
chapter  xlv.  we  were  told  the  officers  were  three  in  number.  Farther  on 
it  will  be  seen  that  they  carried  crossbows,  not  muskets. 


m . 


« 


i|  i!  y    Is,      ' 


DON    QUIXOTE    IN    THE  CART.     Vol.  I.      Page  400 


CHAPTER    XLVII.  401 

give  lue,  fair  ladies,  if,  througli  inadvertence,  I  have  in  auglit 
offended  yon  ;  for  intentionally  and  wittingly  I  liave  never 
done  so  to  any ;  and  pray  to  God  that  he  deliver  me  from  this 
captivity  to  which  some  malevolent  enchanter  has  consigned 
me;  and  should  I  find  myself  released  therefrom,  the  favors 
that  ye  have  bestowed  upon  me  in  this  castle  shall  be  held  in 
memory  by  me,  that  I  may  acknowledge,  recognize,  and  requite 
them  as  they  deserve." 

While  this  was  passing  between  the  ladies  of  the  castle  and 
Don  Quixote,  the  curate  and  the  barber  bade  farewell  to  Don 
Fernando  and  his  companions,  to  the  captain,  his  brother,  and 
the  ladies,  now  all  made  happy,  and  in  particular  to  Dorothea 
and  Luscinda.  They  all  embraced  one  another,  and  promised 
to  let  each  other  know  how  things  went  with  them,  and  Don 
Fernando  directed  the  curate  where  to  write  to  him,  to  tell  him 
what  became  of  Don  Quixote,  assuring  him  that  there  was 
nothing  that  could  give  him  more  pleasure  than  to  hear,  and 
that  he  too,  on  his  part,  would  send  him  word  of  everything  he 
thought  he  would  like  to  know,  about  his  marriage,  Zoraicla's 
baptism,  Don  Luis's  affair,  and  Luscinda's  return  to  her  home. 
The  curate  promised  to  comply  with  his  request  carefully,  and 
they  embraced  once  more,  and  renewed  their  promises. 

The  landlord  approached  the  curate  and  handed  him  some 
papers,  saying  he  had  discovered  them  in  the  lining  of  the 
valise  in  which  the  novel  of  "  The  Ill-advised  Curiosity  "  had 
been  found,  and  that  he  might  take  tlTOm  all  away  with  him 
as  their  owner  had  not  since  returned ;  for,  as  he  could  not 
read,  he  did  not  want  them  himself.  The  curate  thanked  him, 
and  opening  them  he  saw  at  the  beginning  of  the  manuscript 
the  words,  '<  Novel  of  Rinconete  and  Cortadillo,"  l)y  which  he 
perceived  that  it  was  a  novel,  and  as  that  of  "  The  Ill-advised 
Curiosity  "  had  been  good  he  concluded  this  would  be  so  too, 
as  they  were  both  probably  by  the  same  author ;  ^  so  he  kei)t 
it,  intending  to  read  it  when  he  had  an  opportunity.  He  then 
mounted  and  his  friend  the  barber  did  the  same,  both  masked, 
so  as  not  to  be  recognized  by  Don  Quixote,  and  set  out  fol- 
lowing in  the  rear  of  the  cart.  The  order  of  march  was  this  : 
first  went  the  cart  with  the  owner  leading  it ;  at  each  side  of  it 

^  Rinconete  y  Cortadillo  is  the  third  of  tlie  Novelas  EJc'mx>hires  pub- 
lished by  Cervantes  in  1613.  From  this  we  may  assume  that  the  Cnrioso 
Impertinente  was  written  about  the  same  time,  i.e.  during  his  residence 
in  Seville. 

Vol.  I.  —  26 


402  DON    QUIXOTE. 

marched  the  officers  of  the  Brotherhood,  as  has  been  said,  with 
their  muskets ;  then  followed  Sancho  Panza  on  his  ass,  leading 
Rocinante  by  the  bridle ;  and  behind  all  came  the  curate  and 
the  barber  on  their  mighty  mules,  with  faces  covered,  as  afore- 
said, and  a  grave  and  serious  air,  measuring  their  pace  to  suit 
the  slow  steps  of  the  oxen.  Don  Quixote  was  seated  in  the 
cage,  with  his  hands  tied  and  his  feet  stretched  out,  leaning 
against  the  bars  as  silent  and  as  patient  as  if  he  were  a  stone 
statue  and  not  a  man  of  flesh.  Thus  slowly  and  silently  they 
made,  it  might  be,  two  leagues,  until  they  reached  a  valley 
which  the  carter  thought  a  convenient  place  for  resting  and 
feeding  his  oxen,  and  he  said  so  to  the  curate,  but  the  barber 
was  of  opinion  that  they  ought  to  push  on  a  little  farther,  as 
at  the  other  side  of  a  'hill  which  appeared  close  by  he  knew 
there  was  a  valley  that  had  more  grass  and  much  better  than 
the  one  where  they  proposed  to  halt ;  and  his  advice  was  taken 
and  they  continued  their  journey. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  evirate,  looking  back,  saw  coming  on 
behind  them  six  or  seven  mounted  men,  well  found  and  equipped, 
who  soon  overtook  them,  for  they  were  travelling,  not  at  the 
sluggish,  deliberate  pace  of  oxen,  but  like  men  who  rode  canons' 
mules,  and  in  haste  to  take  their  noontide  rest  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible at  the  inn  which  was  in  sight  not  a  league  off.  The 
quick  travellers  came  up  with  the  slow,  and  courteous  saluta- 
tions were  exchanged ;  and  one  of  the  new  comers,  who  was,  in 
fact,  a  canon  of  Tolecto  and  master  of  the  others  who  accom- 
panied him,  observing  the  regular  order  of  the  procession,  the 
cart,  the  officers,  Sancho,  Rocinante,  the  curate  and  the  barber, 
and  above  all  Don  Quixote  caged  and  confined,  could  not  help 
asking  what  was  the  meaning  of  carrying  the  man  in  that 
fashion;  though,  from  the  badges  of  the  officers,  he  already 
concluded  that  he  must  be  some  desperate  highwayman  or 
other  malefactor  whose  punishment  fell  within  the  jurisdiction 
of  the  Holy  Brotherhood.  One  of  the  officers  to  whom  he  had 
put  the  question,  replied,  "  Let  the  gentleman  himself  tell  you 
the  meaning  of  his  going  this  way,  senor,  for  we  do  not  know." 

Don  Quixote  overheard  the  conversation  and  said,  ''  Haply, 
gentlemen,  you  are  versed  and  learned  in  matters  of  chivalry  ? 
Because  if  you  are  I  will  tell  you  my  misfortunes ;  if  not,  there 
is  no  good  in  my  giving  myself  the  trouble  of  relating  them  ;  " 
but  here  the  curate  and  the  barber,  seeing  that  the  travellers 
were  engaged  in  conversation  with  Don  Quixote,  came  forward, 


CHAPTER    XLVII.  403 

in  order  to  answer  in  sucli  a  way  as  to  save  their  stratagem 
from  being  discovered. 

The  canon,  replying  to  Don  Quixote,  said,  "  In  truth,  brother, 
I  know  more  about  books  of  chivalry  than  I  do  about  Villal- 
pando's  elements  of  logic ;  ^  so  if  that  be  all,  you  may  safely 
tell  me  what  you  please." 

''  In  God's  name,  then,  sefior,"  replied  Don  Quixote ;  "  if 
that  be  so,  I  would  have  you  know  that  I  am  held  enchanted 
in  this  cage  by  the  envy  and  fraud  of  wicked  enchanters ;  for 
virtue  is  more  persecuted  by  the  wicked  than  loved  by  the  good. 
I  am  a  knight-errant,  and  not  one  of  those  whose  names  Fame 
has  never  thought  of  immortalizing  in  her  record,  but  of  those 
who,  in  defiance  and  in  spite  of  envy  itself,  and  all  the  magi- 
cians that  Persia,  or  Brahnians  that  India,  or  Gymnosophists 
that  Ethiopia  ever  produced,  will  place  their  names  in  the 
temple  of  immortality,  to  serve  as  examples  and  patterns  for 
ages  to  come,  whereby  knights-errant  may  see  the  footsteps  in 
which  they  must  tread  if  they  would  attain  the  summit  and 
crowning  point  of  honor  in  arms." 

''  What  Seiior  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  says,"  observed 
the  curate,  "  is  the  truth ;  for  he  goes  enchanted  in  this  cart, 
not  from  any  fault  or  sins  of  his,  but  because  of  the  malevo- 
lence of  those  to  whom  virtue  is  odious  and  valor  hateful. 
This,  seiior,  is  the  Knight  of  the  Rueful  Countenance,  if  you 
have  ever  heard  him  named,  whose  valiant  achievements  and 
mighty  deeds  shall  be  written  on  lasting  brass  and  imperish- 
able marble,  notwithstanding  all  the  efforts  of  envy  to  obscure 
them  and  malice  to  hide  them." 

When  the  canon  heard  both  the  prisoner  and  the  man  who 
was  at  liberty  talk  in  such  a  strain  he  was  ready  to  cross  him- 
self in  his  astonishment,  and  could  not  make  out  what  had 
befallen  him  ;  and  all  his  attendants  were  in  the  same  state 
of  amazement. 

At  this  point  Sancho  Panza,  who  had  drawn  near  to  hear 
the  conversation,  said,  in  order  to  make  everything  plain, 
"  Well,  sirs,  you  may  like  or  -dislike  what  I  am  going  to  say, 
but  the  fact  of  the  matter  is,  my  master,  Don  Quixote,  is  just 
as  much  enchanted  as  my  mother.  He  is  in  his  full  senses,  he 
eats  and  he  drinks,  and  he  has  his  calls  like  other  men  and  as  he 

^  Siima  de  las  Sumulas,  Alcala  1557,  by  Gaspar  Carillo  do  Villalpando, 
a  theologian  who  distinguished  laimself  for  learning  and  eloquence  at  the 
Council  of  Trent. 


404  DON    QUIXOTE. 

had  yesterday,  before  they  caged  him.  And  if  that's  the  case, 
what  do  they  mean  by  wanting  me  to  believe  that  he  is  en- 
chanted ?  For  I  have  heard  many  a  one  say  that  enchanted 
people  neither  eat,  nor  sleep,  nor  talk ;  and  my  master,  if  yon 
don't  stop  him,  will  talk  more  than  thirty  lawyers."  Then 
tnrning  to  the  curate  he  exclaimed,  "  And,  seiior  curate,  seiior 
curate  !  do  you  think  I  don't  know  yon  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't 
guess  and  see  the  drift  of  these  new  enchantments  ?  Well, 
then,  I  can  tell  you  I  know  yon,  for  all  your  face  is  covered, 
and  I  can  tell  you  I  am  up  to  you,  however  you  may  hide  your 
tricks.  After  all,  where  envy  reigns  virtue  cannot  live,  and 
where  there  is  niggardliness  there  can  be  no  liberality.  Ill  be- 
tide the  devil !  if  it  had  not  been  for  your  worship  my  master 
would  be  married  to  the  Princess  Micomicona  this  minute,  and 
I  should  be  a  count  at  least ;  for  no  less  was  to  be  expected,  as 
well  from  the  goodness  of  my  master,  him  of  the  Rueful 
Countenance,  as  from  the  greatness  of  my  services.  But  I  see 
now  how  true  it  is  what  they  say  in  these  parts,  that  the  wheel 
of  fortune  turns  faster  than  a  mill-wheel,^  and  that  those  who 
were  up  yesterday  are  down  to-day.  I  am  sorry  for  my  wife 
and  children,  for  when  they  might  fairly  and  reasonably  expect 
to  see  their  father  return  to  them  a  governor  or  viceroy  of  some 
island  or  kingdom,  they  will  see  him  come  back  a  horse-boy. 
I  have  said  all  this,  senor  curate,  only  to  urge  your  paternity  '^ 
to  lay  to  your  conscience  your  ill-treatment  of  my  master ;  and 
have  a  care  that  God  does  not  call  you  to  account  in  another 
life  for  making  a  prisoner  of  him  in  this  way,  and  charge 
against  you  all  the  succors  and  good  deeds  that  my  lord  Don 
Quixote  leaves  undone  while  he  is  shut  up." 

"  Trim  those  lamps  there  !  "  ^  exclaimed  the  barber  at  this ; 
"  so  you  are  of  the  same  fraternity  as  your  master,  too,  Sancho  ? 
By  God,  I  begin  to  see  that  you  will  have  to  keep  him  com- 
pany in  the  cage,  and  be  enchanted  like  him  for  having  caught 
some  of  his  humor  and  chivalry.  It  was  an  evil  hour  when 
you  let  yourself  be  got  with  child  by  his  promises,  and  that 
island  you  long  so  much  for  found  its  way  into  your  head." 

"  I  am  not  with  child  by  any  one,"  returned  Sancho,  "  nor 
am  I  a  man  to  let  myself  be  got  with  child,  if  it  was  by  the 
King  himself.     Though  I  am  poor  I  am  an  old  Christian,  and 

1  Prov.  209. 

'  A  title  sometimes  given  to  ecclesiastics  in  lieu  of  "  Reverence." 

'  Proverbial  phrase  —  "  Adobadme  esos  candiles," 


CHAPTER    XL  VI I.  405 

I  owe  nothing  to  nobody,  and  if  1  long  for  an  island,  other 
people  long  for  worse.  Each  of  us  is  the  son  of  his  own  works  ; 
and  being  a  man  I  may  come  to  be  pope,^  not  to  say  governor 
of  an  island,  especially  as  my  master  may  win  so  many  that 
he  will  not  know  whom  to  give  them  to.  Mind  how  you  talk, 
master  barber;  for  shaving  is  not  everything,  and  there  is 
some  difference  between  Peter  and  Peter. "-^  I  say  this  because 
we  all  know  one  another,  and  it  will  not  do  to  throw  false  dice 
with  me ;  ^  and  as  to  the  enchantment  of  my  master,  God 
knows  the  truth ;  leave  it  as  it  is ;  it  will  only  make  it  worse 
to  stir  it." 

The  barber  did  not  care  to  answer  Sancho  lest  by  his  plain 
speaking  he  should  disclose  what  the  curate  and  he  himself 
were  trying  so  hard  to  conceal ;  and  under  the  same  apprehen- 
sion the  curate  had  asked  the  canon  to  ride  on  a  little  in  ad- 
vance, so  that  he  might  tell  him  the  mystery  of  this  man  in 
the  cage,  and  other  things  that  would  amuse  him.  The  canon 
agreed,  and  going  on  ahead  with  his  servants,  listened  with 
attention  to  the  account  of  the  character,  life,  madness,  and 
ways  of  Don  Quixote,  given  him  by  the  curate,  who  described 
to  him  briefly  the  beginning  and  origin  of  his  craze,  and  told 
him  the  whole  story  of  his  adventures  up  to  his  being  confined 
in  the  cage,  together  with  the  plan  they  had  of  taking  him 
home  to  try  if  by  any  means  they  could  discover  a  cure  for  his 
madness.  The  canon  and  his  servants  were  surprised  anew 
when  they  heard  Don  Quixote's  strange  story,  and  when  it 
was  finished  he  said,  '•'■  To  tell  the  truth,  senor  curate,  I  for  my 
part  consider  what  they  call  books  of  chivalry  to  be  mischiev- 
ous to  the  State  ;  and  though,  led  by  idle  and  false  taste,  I 
have  read  the  beginnings  of  almost  all  that  have  been  i)rinte(l, 
I  never  could  manage  to  read  any  one  of  them  from  beginning 
to  end  ;  for  it  seems  to  me  they  are  all  more  or  less  the  same 
thing;  and  one  has  nothing  more  in  it  than  another ;  this  no 
more  than  that.  And  in  my  opinion  this  sort  of  writing  and 
composition  is  of  the  same  species  as  the  fables  they  call  the 
Milesian,  nonsensical  tales  that  aim  solely  at  giving  amuse- 
ment and  not  instruction,  exactly  the  opposite  of  the  apologue 
fables  which  amuse  and  instruct  at  the  same  time.  And 
though  it  may  be  the  chief  object  of  such  books  to  amuse,  I 
do  not  know  how  they  can  succeed,  when  they  are  so  full  of 
such  monstrous  nonsense.     For  the  enjoyment  the  mind  feels 

iProvs,  112  and  117.  *  Prov.  178,  =•  Prov.  69. 


406  DON    QUIXOTE. 

must  come  from  the  beauty  and  harmony  which  it  perceives 
or  contemplates  in  the  things  that  the  eye  or  the  imagination 
brings  before  it ;  and  nothing  that  has  any  iigliness  or  dispro- 
portion about  it  can  give  any  pleasure.     What  beauty,  then, 
or  what  proportion  of  the  parts  to  the  whole,  or  of  the  whole 
to  the  parts,  can  there  be  in  a  book  or  fable  where  a  lad  of 
sixteen  cuts  down  a  giant  as  tall  as  a  tower  and  makes  two 
halves  of  him  as  if  he  was  an  almond  cake  ?  ^     And  when  they 
want  to  give  us  a  picture  of  a  battle,  after  having  told  us  that 
there  are  a  million  of  combatants  on  the  side  of  the  enemy,  let 
the  hero  of  the  book  be  opposed  to  them,  and  we  have  per- 
force to  believe,  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  that  the  said  knight 
wins  the  victory  by  the  single  might  of  his  strong  arm.     And 
then,  what  shall  we  say  of   the  facility  with  which  a   born 
queen  or  empress  will  give  herself  over  into  the  arms  of  some 
unknown  wandering  knight  ?     What  mind,  that  is  not  wholly 
barbarous  and  uncultured,  can  find  pleasure  in  reading  of  how 
a  great  tower  full  of  knights  sails  away  across  the  sea  like  a 
ship  Avith  a  faiy  wind,  and  will  be  to-night  in  Lombardy  and 
to-morrow  morning  in  the  land  of  Prester  John  of  the  Indies, 
or  some  other  that  Ptolemy  never  described  nor  Marco  Polo 
saw  ?     And  if,  in  answer  to  this,  I  am  told  that  the  authors  of 
books  of  the  kind  Avrite  them  as  fiction,  and  therefore  are  not 
bound  to  regard  ruceties  of  truth,  I  would  reply  that  fiction  is 
all  the  better  the  more  it  looks  like  truth,  and  gives  the  more 
pleasure  the  more  probability  -  and  possibility  there  is  about 
it.     Plots  in  fiction  should  be  wedded  to  the  understanding  of 
the  reader,  and  be  constructed  in  such  a  way  that,  reconciling 
impossibilities,  smoothing  over  difficulties,  keeping  the  mind 
on  the  alert,  they  may  surprise,  interest,  divert,  and  entertain, 
so  that  wonder  and  delight  joined  may  keep  pace  one  with  the 
other  ;  all  which  he  will  fail  to  effect  who  shuns  verisimilitude 
and  truth  to  nature,  wherein  lies  the  perfection  of  writing.     I 
have  never  yet  seen  any  book  of  chivalry  that  puts  together  a 
connected  plot  complete  in  all  its  numbers,  so  that  the  middle 
agrees  with  the  beginning,  and  the  end  with  the  beginning  and 
middle  ;  on   the  contrary,   they  construct   them  with  such  a 
multitude  of  members  that  it  seems  as  though  they  meant  to 
produce  a  chimera  or  monster  rather  than  a  well-proportioned 

'  Alluding  to  Belianis  of  Greece,  who  when  only  sixteen  cut  a  knight 
in  two  at  Persepolis. 

-  Literally,  "  the  more  of  the  doubtful,"  meaning  the  more  of  that 
which  is  not  manifestly  impossible. 


I 


CHAPTER    XLVII.  407 

figure.  And  besides  all  this  they  are  harsh  in  their  style, 
incredible  in  their  achievements,  licentious  in  their  amours, 
uncouth  in  their  courtly  speeches,  prolix  in  their  battles,  silly 
in  their  arguments,  absui'd  in  their  travels,  and,  in  short, 
wanting  in  everything  like  intelligent  art;  for  which  reason 
they  deserve  to  be  banished  from  the  Christian  commonwealth 
as  a  worthless  breed." 

The  curate  listened  to  him  attentively  and  felt  that  he  was 
a  man  of  sound  understanding,  and  that  there  was  good  reason 
in  what  he  said;  so  he  told  him  that,  being  of  the  same  opinion 
himself,  and  bearing  a  grudge   to  books  of    chivalry,  he  had 
burned  all  Don  Quixote's,  which  were  many  ;  and  ^-ave  him  an 
account  of  the  scrutiny  he  had  made  of  them,  and  of  those  he 
had  condemned  to  the  flames  and  those  he  had  spared,  with 
which  the  canon  was  not  a  little  amused,  adding  that  though 
he  had  said  so  much  in  condemnation  of  these  books,  still  he 
found  one  good  thing  in  them,  and  that  was  the  opportunity 
they  afforded  to  a  gifted  intellect  for  displaying  itself ;  for  they 
presented  a  Avide  and  spacious  field  over  which  the  pen  might 
range  freely,  describing  shipwrecks,  tempests,  combats,  battles, 
portraying  a  valiant  captain  with  all  the  qualifications  requisite 
to  make  one,  showing  him  sagacious  in  foreseeing  the  wiles  of 
the  enemy,  eloquent  in  speech   to  encourage  or  restrain   his 
soldiers,  ripe  in  counsel,  rapid  in  resolve,  as  bold  in  biding  his 
time  as  in  pressing  the  attack  ;  now  picturing  some  sad  tragic 
incident,  now  some  joyful  and  unexpected  event ;  here  a  beau- 
teous   lady,    virtuous,  wise,   and   modest ;    there   a    Christian 
knight,  brave  and  gentle  ;  here  a  lawless,  barbarous  braggart ; 
there  a  courteous  prince,  gallant  and  gracious  ;  setting  forth  the 
devotion  and  loyalty  of  vassals,  the  greatness  and  generosity 
of  nobles.     ''  Or  again,"  said  he,  '<  the  author  may  show  him- 
self to  be  an  astronomer,  or  a  skilled  cosmographer,  or  musician, 
or  one  versed  in  affairs  of  state,  and  sometimes  he  will  have  a 
chance  of  coming  forward  as  a  magician  if  he  likes.     He  can 
set  forth  the  craftiness  of  Ulysses,  the  piety  of  ^-Eneas,  the 
valor  of  Achilles,  the  misfortunes  of  Hector,  the  treachery  of 
Sinon,  the  friendship  of  Euryalus,  the  generosity  of  Alexander, 
the  boldness  of  Caesar,  the  clemency  and  truth  of  Trajan,  the 
fidelity  of  Zopyrus,  the  wisdom  of  Cato,  and  in  short  all  the 
faculties  that  serve  to  make  an  illustrious  man  perfect,  now 
uniting  them  in  one  individual,  again  distributing  them  among 
many ;  and  if  this  be  done  with  charm  of  style  and  ingenious 


408  DON    QUIXOTE. 

invention,  aiming  at  the  truth  as  much  as  possible,  he  will 
assuredly  weave  a  web  of  bright  and  varied  threads  that,  when 
finished,  will  display  such  perfection  and  beauty  that  it  will 
attain  the  worthiest  object  any  writing  can  seek,  which,  as  I 
said  before,  is  to  give  instruction  and  pleasure  combined  ;  for 
the  unrestricted  range  of  these  books  enables  the  author  to 
show  his  powers,  epic,  lyric,  tragic,  or  comic,  and  all  the  moods 
the  sweet  and  winning  arts  of  poesy  and  oratory  are  capable 
of ;  for  the  epic  may  be  written  in  prose  just  as  well  as  in 
verse," 


CHAPTER     XLVIIL 

IN    WHICH    THE    CAXON    PURSUES     THE    SUBJECT    OF    THE    BOOKS 
OF  CHIVALRY,  WITH  OTHER  MATTERS  WORTHY    OF    HIS  WIT. 

"  It  is  as  you  say,  senor  canon,"  said  the  curate ;  *'  and  for 
that  reason  those  who  have  hitherto  written  books  of  the  sort 
deserve  all  the  more  censure  for  writing  without  paying  any 
attention  to  good  taste  or  to  the  rules-  of  art,  by  which  they 
might  guide  themselves  and  become  as  famous  in  prose  as  the 
two  princes  of  Greek  and  Latin  poetry  are  in  verse." 

"  I  myself,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  canon,  "  was  once  tempted 
to  write  a  book  of  chivalry  in  which  all  the  points  I  have 
mentioned  were  to  be  observed ;  and  if  I  must  own  the  truth  I 
have  more  than  a  hundred  sheets  Avritten  ;  and  to  try  if  it  came 
up  to  my  own  opinion  of  it,  I  showed  them  to  persons  who 
were  fond  of  this  kind  of  reading,  to  learned  and  intelligent 
men  as  well  as  to  ignorant  people  who  cared  for  nothing  but 
the  pleasure  of  listening  to  nonsense,  and  from  all  I  obtained 
flattering  approval ;  nevertheless  I  proceeded  no  further  with 
it,  as  well  because  it  seemed  to  me  an  occupation  inconsistent 
with  my  profession,  as  because  I  perceived  that  the  fools  are 
more  numerous  than  the  wise ;  and,  though  it  is  better  to  be 
praised  by  the  wise  few  than  applauded  ^  by  the  foolish  many, 
I  have  no  mind  to  submit  myself  to  the  stupid  judgment  of  the 
silly  public,  to  whom  the  reading  of  such  books  falls  for  the 
most  part. 

'  In  the  original  it  is  burlado,  "  scoffed  at,"  which  makes  no  sense. 
Hartzenbusch  suggests  viioreado,  but  I  think  alahado  is  the  more  likely 
word  and  suits  the  context  better. 


CHAPTER    XLVni.  409 

"  But  what  most  of  all  made  me  hold  my  hand  and  even  aban- 
don all  idea  of  finishing  it  was  an  argument  I  put  to  myself 
taken  from  the  plays  that  are  acted  now-a-days,  which  was  in 
this  wise :  if  those  that  are  now  in  vogue,  as  well  those  that 
are  pure  invention  as  those  founded  on  history,  are,  all  or  most 
of  them,  downright  nonsense  and  things  that  have  neither  head 
nor  tail,  and  yet  the  public  listens  to  them  with  delight,  and 
regards  and  cries  them  up  as  perfection  when  they  are  so  far 
from  it ;  and  if  the  authors  who  write  them,  and  the  players 
who  act  them,  say  that  this  is  what  they  must  be,  for  the  pub- 
lic wants  this  and  will  have  nothing  else ;  and  that  those  that 
go  by  rule  and  work  out  a  plot  according  to  the  laws  of  art  Avill 
only  find  some  half-dozen  intelligent  people  to  understand  them, 
while  all  the  rest  remain  blind  to  the  merit  of  their  composition ; 
and  that  for  themselves  it  is  better  to  get  bread  from  the  many 
than  praise  from  the  few  ;  then  my  book  will  fare  the  same 
way,  after  I  have  burnt  off  my  eyebrows  in  trying  to  observe 
the  principles  I  have  spoken  of,  and  I  shall  be  '  the  tailor  of  El 
Campillo.'  ^  And  though  I  have  sometimes  endeavored  to  con- 
vince actors  that  tliey  are  mistaken  in  this  notion  they  have 
adopted,  and  that  they  would  attract  more  people,  and  get  more 
credit,  by  producing  plays  in  accordance  with  the  rules  of  art, 
than  by  absurd  ones,  tliey  are  so  thoroughly  wedded  to  their  own 
opinion  that  no  argument  or  evidence  can  wean  them  from  it. 

"  I  remember  saying  one  day  to  one  of  these  obstinate  fel- 
lows, '  Tell  me,  do  you  not  recollect  that  a  few  years  ago,  there 
were  three  tragedies  acted  in  Spain,  written  by  a  famous  poet 
of  these  kingdoms,  which  were  such  that  they  filled  all  who 
heard  them  with  admiration,  delight,  and  interest,  the  ignorant 
as  well  as  the  wise,  the  masses  as  well  as  the  higher  orders, 
and  brought  in  more  money  to  the  performers,  these  three  alone, 
than  thirty  of  the  best  that  have  been  since  produced  ?  ' 

'  Alluding  to  the  proverb  (216)  El  sastre  del  Campillo,  que  cosia  de  halde 
y  x>onia  el  kilo  —  "The  tailor  of  El  Campillo,  who  stitched  for  nothing 
and  found  the  thread."  In  the  original  it  is  "del  cantillo"  and  the  Mar- 
quis of  Santillana  gives  the  proverb  in  tliis  form ;  but  in  the  Ficara  Jnstina, 
in  Quevedo,  and  most  other  authorities  it  is  given  as  above.  "  Cantillo  " 
is  unmeaning,  while  "  Campillo,  "  or  "  El  Campillo  "  is  the  name  of  nearly 
a  score  of  places  in  Spain.  Any  one  versed  in  proverbial  literature  will 
see  that  this  is  one  of  the  class  of  quasi  local  proverbs  to  which  so  many  of 
the  Spanish  belong,  e.  g.  "the  squire  of  Guadalajara,"  "the  abbot  of  Zar- 
zuela,"  "  the  smith  of  Arganda,"  "  the  doctors  of  Valencia,"  and  that  pe- 
culiarly humorous  one,  which  ought  by  right  to  be  Scottish,  "  The  piper  of 
Bujalance,  (who  got)  one  maravedi  to  strike  up  and  ten  to  leave  off." 


410  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"'No  doubt/  replied  the  actor  in  question,  'you  mean  tlie 
"  Isabella,"  the  ''  Phyllis,"  and  the  "  Alexandra."  '  ^ 

"  '  Those  are  the  ones  I  mean,'  said  I ;  '  and  see  if  they  did 
not  observe  the  principles  of  art,  and  if,  by  observing  them, 
they  failed  to  show  their  superiority  and  please  all  the  world  ; 
so  that  the  fault  does  not  lie  with  the  public  that  insists  upon 
nonsense,  but  with  those  who  don't  know  how  to  produce 
something  else.  "  The  Ingratitude  Revenged  "  was  not  non- 
sense, nor  was  there  any  in  "  The  Numantia,"  nor  any  to  be 
found  in  "  The  Merchant  Lover,"  nor  yet  in  "  The  Friendly 
Fair  Foe,"  ^  nor  in  some  others  that  have  been  written  by  cer- 
tain gifted  poets,  to  their  own  fame  and  renown,  and  to  the 
profit  of  those  that  brought  them  out ; '  some  further  remarks 
I  added  to  these,  with  which,  I  think,  I  left  him  rather  dumb- 
foundered,  but  not  so  satisfied  or  convinced  that  I  could  dis- 
abuse him  of  his  error." 

"  You  have  touched  upon  a  subject,  seiior  canon,"  observed 
the  curate  here,  "  that  has  awakened  an  old  enmity  I  have 
against  the  plays  in  vogue  at  the  present  day,  quite  as  strong 
as  that  which  I  bear  to  the  books  of  chivalry ;  for  while  the 
drama,  according  to  Tully,  should  be  the  ndrror  of  human  life, 
the  model  of  manners,  and  the  image  of  the  truth,  those  which 
are  presented  now-a-days  are  mirrors  of  nonsense,  models  of 
folly,  and  images  of  lewdness.  For  what  greater  nonsense  can 
there  be  in  connection  with  what  we  are  now  discussing  than 
for  an  infant  to  appear  in  swaddling  clothes  in  the  first  scene 
of  the  first  act,  and  in  the  second  a  grown-up,  bearded  man  ? 
Or  what  greater  absurdity  can  there  be  than  putting  before  us 
an  old  man  as  a  swashbuckler,  a  young  man  as  a  poltroon,  a 
lackey  using  fine  language,  a  page  giving  sage  advice,  a  king 
plying  as  a  porter,  a  princess  who  is  a  kitchen-maid  ?  And 
then  what  shall  I  say  of  their  attention  to  the  time  in  which 
the  action  they  represent  may  or  can  take  place,  save  that  I 
have  seen  a  play  where  the  first  act  began  in  Europe,  the 
second  in  Asia,  the  third  finished  in  Africa,  and  no  doubt,  had 
it  been  in  four  acts,  the  fourth  would  have  ended  in  America, 
and  so  it  would  have  been  laid  in  all  four  quarters  of  the 
globe  ?     And   if   truth  to  life  is  the  main  thing   the  drama 

'  Bj'  Lupercio  Leonardo  de  Argensola. 

^  La  Ingratitud  vengada^  a  comedy  by  Lope  de  Vega ;  La  Numancia., 
a  tragedy  by  Cervantes  liimself ,  first  printed  in  1784  ;  El  Mercader  amante., 
a  comedy  by  Gaspar  de  Aguilar ;  and  La  Enemiga  favorable.,  by  the  licen- 
tiate Francisco  Tarraga. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII.  411 

should  keep  in  view,  how  is  it  possible  for  any  average  under- 
standing to  be  satisfied  when  the  action  is  supposed  to  pass  in 
the  time  of  King  Pepin  or  Charlemagne,  and  the  principal  per- 
sonage in  it  they  represent  to  be  the  Emperor  Heraclius  who 
entered  Jerusalem  with  the  cross  and  won  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
like  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  there  being  years  innumerable  be- 
tween the  one  and  the  other  ?  or,  if  the  play  is  based  on  fiction 
and  historical  facts  are  introduced,  or  bits  of  what  occurred  to 
different  people  and  at  different  times  mixed  up  with  it,  all, 
not  only  without  any  semblance  of  probal)ility,  but  with  obvious 
errors  that  from  every  point  of  view  are  inexcusable  ?  And 
the  worst  of  it  is,  there  are  ignorant  people  who  say  that  this 
is  perfection,  and  that  anything  beyond  this  is  affected  refine- 
ment. And  then  if  we  turn  to  sacred  dramas — what  miracles^ 
they  invent  in  them  !  AVhat  apocryphal,  ill-devised  incidents, 
attributing  to  one  saint  the  miracles  of  another !  And  even 
in  secular  plays  they  venture  to  introduce  ndracles  without 
any  reason  or  object  except  that  they  think  some  such  miracle, 
or  transformation  as  they  call  it,  will  come  in  well  to  astonish 
stupid  people  and  draw  them  to  the  play.  All  this  tends  to 
the  prejudice  of  the  truth  and  the  corruption  of  history,  nay 
more,  to  the  reproach  of  the  wits  of  Spain ;  for  foreigners  who 
scrupulously  observe  the  laws  of  the  drama  ^  look  upon  us  as 
barbarous  and  ignorant,  when  they  see  the  absurdity  and  non- 
sense of  the  plays  we  produce.  Nor  will  it  be  a  sufficient 
excuse  to  say  that  the  chief  object  well-ordered  governments 
have  in  view  when  they  permit  plays  to  be  performed  in  pub- 
lic, is  to  entertain  the  people  with  some  harmless  amusement 
occasionally,  and  keep  it  from  those  evil  humors  which  idle- 
ness is  apt  to  engender  ;  and  that,  as  this  may  be  attained  by 
any  sort  of  play,  good  or  bad,  there  is  no  need  to  lay  down 
laws,  or  bind  those  who  write  or  act  them  to  make  them  as 
they  ought  to  be  made,  since,  as  I  say,  the  object  sought  for 
may  be  secured  by  any  sort.  To  this  I  would  reply  that  the 
same  end  would  be,  beyond  all  comparison,  better  attained  by 
means  of  good  plays  than  by  those  that  are  not  so  ;  for  after 
listening  to  an  artistic  and  properly  constructed  play,  the 
hearer  will  come  away  enlivened  by  the  jests,  instructed  by 
the  serious  parts,  full  of  admiration  at  the  incidents,  his  wits 

'  The  foreigners  Cervantes  alludes  to  here  could  only  have  been  the 
Italians,  who  had  made  sonic  efforts  in  the  direction  of  dramatic  propriety. 
There  was  no  French  stage  at  the  time ;  and  the  English  certainly  did  not 
"  scrupulously  observe  "  the  laws  he  alludes  to. 


412  DON    QUIXOTE. 

sharpened  by  tlie  arguments,  warned  by  the  tricks,  all  the 
wiser  for  the  examples,  inflamed  against  vice,  and  in  love  with 
virtue ;  for  in  all  these  ways  a  good  play  will  stimulate  the 
mind  of  the  hearer,  be  he  ever  so  boorish  or  dull ;  and  of  all 
impossibilities  the  greatest  is  that  a  play  endowed  with  all 
these  qualities  will  not  entertain,  satisfy,  and  please  much  more 
than  one  wanting  in  them,  like  the  greater  number  of  those 
which  are  commonly  acted  now-a-days.  Nor  are  the  poets  who 
write  them  to  be  blamed  for  this ;  for  some  there  are  among 
them  who  are  perfectly  well  aware  of  their  faults,  and  know 
thoroughly  what  they  ought  to  do ;  but  as  plays  have  become 
a  salable  commodity,  they  say,  and  with  truth,  that  the  actors 
will  not  buy  them  unless  they  are  after  this  fashion ;  and  so 
,the  poet  tries  to  adapt  himself  to  the  requirements  of  the  actor 
who  is  to  pay  him  for  his  work.  And  that  this  is  the  truth 
may  be  seen  by  the  countless  plays  that  a  most  fertile  wit  of 
these  kingdoms  has  written,  with  so  much  brilliancy,  so  much 
grace  and  gayety,  such  polished  versification,  such  choice 
language,  such  profound  reflections,  and  in  a  word,  so  rich  in 
eloquence  and  elevation  of  style,  that  he  has  filled  the  world 
with  his  fame ;  and  yet,  in  consequence  of  his  desire  to  suit  the 
taste  of  the  actors,  they  have  not  all,  as  some  of  them  have, 
come  as  near  perfection  as  they  ought. ^  Others  write  plays 
with  such  heedlessness  that  after  they  have  been  acted,  the 
actors  have  to  fly  and  abscond,  afraid  of  being  punished,  as 
they  often  have  been,  for  having  acted  something  ofl'ensive  to 
some  king  or  other,  or  insulting  to  some  noble  family.  All 
which  evils,  and  many  more  that  I  say  nothing  of,  would  be 
removed  if  there  were  some  intelligent  and  sensible  person  at 
the  capital  to  examine  all  plays  before  they  were  acted,  not 
only  those  produced  in  the  capital  itself,  but  all  that  were  in- 

'  The  fertile  wit  Avas,  of  course,  Lope  de  Vega,  at  whom,  in  particular, 
this  criticism  is  aimed;  and  Cervantes  shows  great  adroitness  in  the  mode 
in  which  he  has  conducted  his  attack.  There  is  hardly  anything,  however, 
which  he  says  that  Lope  does  not  admit  with  cynical  candor  in  the  Arte 
nuevo  de  hacer  Comedias^  where  he  insists  upon  the  right  of  the  puldic  to 
have  nonsense  if  it  prefers  it,  inasmuch  as  it  pays.  This  chapter  has  a 
peculiar  interest,  not  only  as  showing  the  views  of  Cervantes,  hut  as  fur- 
nishing an  explanation  of  the  bitter  feeling  with  which  he  was  unquestion- 
ably regarded  by  Lope  and  Lope's  school ;  a'  feeling  that  found  expression 
a  few  years  later  in  the  attack  nuide  upon  him  by  Avellaneda.  Cervantes 
himself  shortly  afterwards  in  his  comedies  violated  nearly  all  the  prin- 
ciples lie  lays  down  here,  and  in  tlie  second  act  of  the  JRufian  Dichoso 
solemnly  reads  his  recantation.  Much  of  what  be  says  here  is  almost 
identical  with  what  Sir  Philip  Sidney  had  said  in  the  Apologie  for  Poetrie. 


CHAPTER    XLVIIL  413 

tended  to  be  acted  in  Spain  ;  without  whose  approval,  seal,  and 
signature,  no  local  magistracy  should  allow  any  play  to  be 
acted.  In  that  case  actors  would  take  care  to  send  their  plays 
to  the  capital,  and  could  act  them  in  safety,  and  those  who 
write  them  would  be  more  careful  and  take  more  pains  with 
their  work,  standing  in  awe  of  having  to  submit  it  to  the  strict 
examination  of  one  who  understood  the  matter ;  and  so  good 
plays  would  be  produced  and  the  objects  they  aim  at  happily 
attained;  as  well  the  amusement  of  the  people,  as  the  credit  of 
the  wits  of  Spain,  the  interest  and  safety  of  the  actors,  and 
the  saving  of  trouble  in  inflicting  punishment  on  them.  And 
if  the  same  or  some  other  person  were  authorized  to  examine 
the  newly  written  books  of  chivalry,  no  doubt  some  would 
appear  with  all  the  perfections  you  have  described,  enriching 
our  language  with  the  gracious  and  precious  treasure  of  elo- 
quence, and  driving  the  old  books  into  obscurity  before  the 
light  of  the  new  ones  that  would  come  out  for  the  harmless 
entertainment,  not  merely  of  the  idle  but  of  the  very  busiest ; 
for  the  bow  can  not  be  always  bent,  nor  can  weak  human  nature 
exist  without  some  lawful  amusement." 

The  canon  and  the  curate  had  proceeded  thus  far  with  their 
con\  ersation,  when  the  barber,  coming  forward,  joined  them, 
and  said  to  the  curate,  ''  This  is  the  spot,  seiior  licentiate,  that 
I  said  was  a  good  one  for  fresh  and  plentiful  pasture  for  the 
oxen,  while  we  take  our  noontide  rest." 

"  And  so  it  seems,"  returned  the  curate,  and  he  told  the 
canon  what  he  pro})Osed  to  do,  on  which  he  too  made  up  his 
mind  to  halt  with  them,  attracted  by  the  aspect  of  the  fair 
valley  that  lay  before  their  eyes  ;  and  to  enjoy  it  as  well  as 
the  conversation  of  the  curate,  to  whom  he  had  begun  to  take 
a  fancy,  and  also  to  learn  more  particulars  about  the  doings  of 
Don  Quixote,  he  desired  some  of  his  servants  to  go  on  to  the 
inn,  which  was  not  far  distant,  and  fetch  from  it  what  eatables 
there  might  be  for  the  whole  party,  as  he  meant  to  rest  for  the 
afternoon  where  he  was  ;  to  which  one  of  his  servants  replied 
that  the  sumpter  mule,  which  by  this  time  ought  to  have 
reached  the  inn,  carried  provisions  enough  to  make  it  un- 
necessary to  get  anything  from  the  inn  except  barley. 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the  canon,  ''  take  all  the  beasts  there, 
and  make  the  sumpter  mule  come  back." 

While  this  was  going  on,  Sancho,  perceiving  that  he  could 
speak  to  his  master  without  having  the  curate  and  the  barber. 


414  DON    QUIXOTE. 

of  whom  he  had  his  suspicions,  present  all  the  time,  ap- 
proached the  cage  in  which  Don  Quixote  was  placed,  and  said, 
"  Seiior,  to  ease  my  conscience  I  want  to  tell  you  the  state  of 
the  case  as  to  your  enchantment,  and  that  is  that  these  two 
here,  with  their  faces  covered,  are  the  curate  of  our  village 
and  the  barber  ;  and  I  suspect  they  have-hit  upon  this  plan  of 
carrying  you  off  in  this  fashion,  out  of  pure  envy  because  your 
worship  surpasses  them  in  doing  famous  deeds ;  and  if  this  be 
the  truth  it  follows  that  you  are  not  enchanted,  but  hood- 
winked and  made  a  fool  of.  And  to  prove  this  I  want  to  ask 
you  one  thing  ;  and  if  you  answer  me  as  I  believe  you  will 
answer,  you  will  be  able  to  lay  your  finger  on  the  trick,  and 
you  will  see  that  you  are  not  enchanted  but  gone  wrong  in 
your  wits." 

"  Ask  what  thou  wilt,  Sancho  my  son,"  returned  Don 
Quixote,  "  for  I  will  satisfy  thee  and  answer  all  thou  requirest. 
As  to  what  thou  sayest,  that  these  who  accompany  us  yonder 
are  the  curate  and  the  barber,  our  neighbors  and  acquaint- 
ances, it  is  very  possible  that  they  may  seem  to  be  those  same 
persons  ;  but  that  they  are  so  in  reality  and  in  fact,  believe  it 
not  on  any  account ;  what  thou  art  to  believe  and  think  is 
that,  if  they  look  like  them,  as  thou  sayest,  it  must  be  that 
those  who  have  enchanted  me  have  taken  this  shape  and  like- 
ness ;  for  it  is  easy  for  enchanters  to  take  any  form  they  please, 
and  they  may  have  taken  those  of  our  friends  in  order  to 
make  thee  think  as  thou  dost,  and  lead  thee  into  a  labyrinth  of 
fancies  from  which  thou  wilt  find  no  escape  though  thou  hadst 
the  cord  of  Theseus  ;  and  they  may  also  have  done  it  to  make 
me  uncertain  in  my  mind,  and  unable  to  conjecture  whence 
this  evil  comes  to  me  ;  for  if  on  the  one  hand  thou  dost  tell 
me  that  the  barber  and  curate  of  our  village  are  here  in  com- 
pany with  us,  and  on  the  other  I  find  myself  shut  up  in  a 
cage,  and  know  in  my  heart  that  no  power  on  earth  that  was 
not  supernatural  would  have  been  able  to  shut  me  in,  what 
wouldst  thou  have  me  say  or  think,  but  that  my  enchantment 
is  of  a  sort  that  transcends  all  I  have  ever  read  of  in  all  the 
histories  that  deal  with  knights-errant  that  have  been  en- 
chanted ?  So  thou  mayst  set  thy  inind  at  rest  as  to  the  idea 
that  they  are  what  thou  sayest,  for  they  are  as  much  so  as  I 
am  a  Turk.  IJut  touching  thy  desire  to  ask  me  something, 
say  on,  and  I  will  answer  thee,  though  thou  shouldst  ask  ques- 
tions from  this  till  to-morrow  morning." 


CHAPTER    XLVIII.  415 

"  May  Our  Lady  be  good  to  me  ! "  said  Saiiclio,  lifting  up  his 
voice  ;  "  and  is  it  possible  that  yonr  worshi})  is  so  thick  of  skull 
and  so  short  of  brains  that  you  cannot  see  that  what  I  say  is 
the  simple  truth,  and  that  malice  has  more  to  do  with  your  im- 
prisonment and  misfortune  than  enchantment  ?  But  as  it  i's 
so,  T  will  prove  plainly  to  you  that  you  are  not  enchanted. 
Now  tell  me,  so  may  God  deliver  you  from  this  affliction,  and 
so  may  you  find  yourself  when  you  least  expect  it  in  the  arms 
of  my  lady  Dulcinea  "  — 

'*  Leave  off  conjuring  me,"  said  Don  Quixote,  ''  and  ask  what 
thou  wouldst  know ;  I  have  already  told  thee  I  will  answer 
with  all  possible  precision." 

''  That  is  what  I  want,"  said  Sancho ;  "  and  what  I  would 
know,  and  have  you  tell  me  without  adding  or  leaving  out  any- 
thing, but  telling  the  whole  truth  as  one  expects  it  to  be  told, 
and  as  it  is  told,  by  all  who  profess  arms,  as  your  worship  pro- 
fesses them,  under  the  title  of  knights-errant  "  — 

"  I  tell  thee  I  will  not  lie  in  any  particular,"  said  Don 
Quixote  :  "  finish  thy  question  ;  for  in  truth  thou  weariest  me 
with  all  these  asseverations,  requirements,  and  precautions, 
Sancho." 

"  Well,  I  rely  on  the  goodness  and  truth  of  my  master," 
said  Sancho  ;  "  and  so,  because  it  bears  upon  what  we  are  talk- 
ing about,  I  would  ask,  speaking  with  all  reverence,  whether 
since  your  worship  has  been  shut  up  and,  as  you  think,  en- 
chanted in  this  cage,  you  have  felt  any  desire  or  inclination  to 
go  anywhere," as  the  saying  is  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  understand  '  going  anywhere,'  "  said  Don  Quixote  ; 
"  explain  thyself  more  clearly,  Sancho,  if  thou  wouldst  have 
me  give  an  answer  to  the  point." 

''  Is  it  possible,"  said  Sancho,  "  that  your  worship  does  not 
understand  '  going  anywhere  '  ?  Why,  the  schoolboys  know 
that  from  the  time  they  were  babes.  Well  then,  you  must 
know  I  mean  have  you  had  any  desire  to  do  what  can  not  be 
avoided  ?  " 

*'  Ah  !  now  I  understand  thee,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote  ; 
"  yes,  often,  and  even  this  minute  ;  get  me  out  of  this  strait,  or 
all  will  not  go  right." 


416  DON    QUIXOTE. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

WHICH  TREATS  OF    THE  SHREWD  CONVERSATION  WHICH  SANCHO 
PANZO    HELD    WITH    HIS    MASTER    DON    QUIXOTE. 

"  Aha,  I  have  caught  you,"  said  Sancho ;  "  this  is  what  in 
my  heart  and  soul  I  was  longing  to  know.  Come  now,  senor, 
can  you  deny  what  is  commonly  said  around  us,  when  a  person 
is  out  of  humor,  '  I  don't  know  what  ails  so-and-so,  that  he 
neither  eats,  nor  drinks,  nor  sleeps,  nor  gives  a  })ro])er  answer 
to  any  question ;  one  would  think  he  was  enchanted  ' '.'  From 
which  it  is  to  be  gathered  that  those  who  do  not  eat,  or  drink, 
or. sleep,  or  do  any  of  the  natural  acts  I  am  speaking  of —  that 
such  persons  are  enchanted ;  but  not  those  that  have  the  desire 
your  worship  has,  and  drink  when  drink  is  given  them,  and 
eat  when  there  is  anything  to  eat,  and  answer  every  question 
that  is  asked  them." 

"  What  thou  sayest  is  true,  Sancho,"  replied  Don  Quixote  ; 
''  but  I  have  already  told  thee  there  are  many  sorts  of  enchant- 
ments, and  it  may  be  that  in  the  course  of  time  they  have  been 
changed  one  for  another,  and  that  now  it  may  be  the  way  with 
enchanted  people  to  do  all  that  I  do,  though  they  did  not  do  so 
before ;  so  it  is  vain  to  argue  or  draw  inferences  against  the 
usage  of  the  time.  I  know  and  feel  that  I  am  enchanted,  and 
that  is  enough  to  ease  my  conscience ;  for  it  would  weigh 
heavily  on  it  if  I  thought  that  I  was  not  enchanted,  and  that 
in  a  faint-hearted  and  cowardly  way  I  allowed  myself  to  lie  in 
this  cage,  defrauding  multitudes  of  the  succor  I  might  afford 
to  those  in  need  and  distress,  who  at  this  very  moment  may  be 
in  sore  want  of  my  aid  and  protection." 

"  Still  for  all  that,"  replied  Sancho,  ''  I  say  that,  for  your 
greater  and  fuller  satisfaction,  it  would  be  well  if  your  worship 
were  to  try  to  get  out  of  this  prison  (and  I  promise  to  do  all  in 
my  power  to  help,  and  even  to  take  you  out  of  it),  and  see  if 
you  could  once  more  mount  your  good  Eocinante,  who  seems 
to  be  enchanted  too,  he  is  so  melancholy  and  dejected ;  and 
then  we  might  try  our  chance  in  looking  for  adventures  again ; 
and  if  we  have  no  luck  there  will  be  time  enough  to  go  back 
to  the  cage ;  in  which,  on  the  faith  of  a  good  and  loyal  squire, 
I  promise  to  shut  myself  up  along  with  yom*  worship,  if  so  be 


CHAPTER    XLIX.  417 

yoii  are  so  unfortunate,  or  I  so  stupid,  as  not  to  be  able  to  carry 
out  my  plan." 

"  I  am  content  to  do  as  thou  sayest,  brother  Sancho,"  said  Don 
Quixote,  ''  and  when  thou  seest  an  opportunity  for  effecting  my 
release  I  will  obey  thee  absolutely  ;  but  thou  wilt  see,  Sancho, 
how  mistaken  thou  art  in  thy  conception  of  my  misfortune." 

The  knight-errant  and  the  ill-errant  squire  kept  up  their 
conversation  till  they  reached  the  place  where  the  curate,  the 
canon,  and  the  barber,  who  had  already  dismounted,  were  Avait- 
ing  for  them.  The  carter  at  once  imyoked  the  oxen  and  left 
them  to  roam  at  hu'ge  about  the  pleasant  green  spot,  the  fresh- 
ness of  which  seemed  to  invite,  not  enchanted  people  like  Don 
Quixote,  but  wide-aAvake,  sensible  folk  like  his  squire,  who 
begged  the  curate  to  allow  his  master  to  leave  the  cage  for  a 
little ;  for  if  tliey  did  not  let  him  out,  the  prison  might  not  be 
as  clean  as  the  propriety  of  such  a  gentleman  as  his  master  re- 
quired. The  curate  understood  him,  and  said  he  would  very 
gladly  comply  with  his  request,  only  that  he  feared  his  master, 
finding  himself  at  liberty,  would  take  to  his  old  courses  and 
make   off  where  nobody  could   ever  find  him  again. 

"  I  will  answer  for  his  not  running  away,"  said  Sancho. 

"  And  I  for  everything,"  said  the  canon,  "  especially  if  he 
gives  me  his  word  as  a  knight  not  to  leave  us  without  our 
consent." 

Don  Quixote,  who  was  listening  to  all  this,  said  he  woidd 
give  it ;  and  that  moreover  one  who  was  enchanted  as  he  was 
could  not  do  as  he  liked  with  himself  ;  for  he  who  had  en- 
chanted him  could  prevent  his  moving  from  one  place  for  three 
ages,  and  if  he  attempted  to  escape  would  bring  him  back  fly- 
ing ;  and  that  being  so,  they  might  as  well  release  him,  particu- 
larly as  it  would  be  to  the  advantage  of  all ;  for,  if  they  did 
not  let  him  outj  he  protested  he  would  be  unable  to  avoid 
offending  their  nostrils  unless  they  kept  their  distance. 

The  canon  took  his  hand,  tied  together  as  they  both  were, 
and  on  his  word  and  promise  they  unbound  him,  and  rejoiced 
beyond  measure  he  was  to  find  himself  out  of  the  cage.  The 
first  thing  he  did  Avas  to  stretch  himself  all  over,  and  then  he 
went  to  where  Rocinante  was  standing  and  giving  him  a  couple 
of  slaps  on  the  haunches  said,  "  I  still  trust  in  God  and  in  his 
blessed  mother,  0  flower  and  mirror  of  steeds,  that  we  shall 
soon  see  ourselves,  both  of  us,  as  we  wish  to  be,  thou  with  thy 
master  on  thy  back,  and  I  mounted  upon  thee,  following  the 

Vol.  I.— 27 


418  DON    QUIXOTE. 

calling  for  wliicli  God  sent  me  into  the  world."  And  so  say- 
ing, accompanied  by  Sanclio,  he  withdrew  to  a  retired  spot, 
from  which  he  came  back  much  relieved  and  more  eager  than 
ever  to  put  his  squire's  scheme  into  execution. 

The  canon  gazed  at  him,  Avondering  at  the  extraordinary 
nature  of  his  madness,  and  that  in  all  his  remarks  and  replies 
he  should  show  such  excellent  sense,  and  only  lose  his  stirrups, 
as  has  been  already  said,  when  the  subject  of  chivalry  was 
broached.     And  so,  moved  by  compassion,  he  said  to  him,  as 
they  all  sat  on  the  green  grass  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  pro- 
visions, ''  Is  it  possible,  gentle  sir,  that  the  nauseous  and  idle 
reading  of  books  of  chivalry  can  have  had  such  an  effect  on 
your  worship  as  to  upset  your  reason  so  that  you  fancy  your- 
self enchanted,  and  the  like,  all  as  far  from  the  truth  as  false- 
hood itself  is  ?     How  can  there  be  any  human  understanding 
that  can  persuade  itself   there  ever  was  all  that   infinity  of 
Amadises  in  the  world,  or  all  that  multitude  of  famous  knights, 
all   those   emperors    of    Trebizond,  all  those   Felixmartes   of 
Hircania,  all  those  palfreys,  and  damsels-errant,  and  serpents, 
and   monsters,  and    giants,   and    marvellous   adventures,  and 
enchantments  of  every  kind,  and  battles,  and  prodigious  en- 
counters, splendid  costumes,  love-sick  princesses,  squires  made 
counts,  droll  dwarfs,  love-letters,  billings  and  cooings,  swash- 
buckler women,^  and,  in  a  word,  all  that  nonsense  the  books  of 
chivalry  contain  ?     For  myself,  I  can  only  say  that  when  I 
read  them,  so  long  as  I  do  not  stop  to  think  that  they  are  all 
lies  and  frivolity,  they  give  me  a  certain  amount  of  pleasure ; 
but  when  I  come  to  consider  what  they  are,  I  fling  the  very 
best  of  them  at  the  wall,  and  would  fling  it  into  the  fire  if  there 
were  one  at  hand,  as  richly  deserving   such  punishment  as 
cheats  and  impostors  out  of  the  range  of  ordinary  toleration, 
and  as  founders  of  new  sects  and  modes  of  life,  and  teachers 
that  lead  the  ignorant  public  to  believe  and  accept  as  truth  all 
the  folly  they  contain.     And  such  is  their  audacity,  they  even 
dare  to  unsettle  the  wits  of  gentlemen  of  birth  and  intelligence, 
as  is  shown  plainly  by  the  way  they  have  served  your  worship, 
when  they  have  brought  j^ou  to  such  a  pass  that  you  have  to 
be  shut  up  in  a  cage  and  carried  on  an  ox-cart  as  one  would 
carry  a  lion  or  a  tiger  from  place  .to  place  to  make  money  by 
showing  it.     Come,  Seizor  Don  Quixote,  have  some  compassion 

'e.g.  Bradamante,  Marfiaa,  and  Antea,  in  the    Orlando  and  Morgante 
Maggiore. 


CHAPTER    XLIX.  419 

for  yourself,  return  to  the  bosom  of  common  sense,  and  make 
use  of  the  liberal  share  of  it  that  Heaven  has  been  pleased  to 
bestow  upon  you,  employing  your  abundant  gifts  of  mind  in 
some  other  reading  that  may  serve  to  benefit  your  conscience 
and  add  to  your  honor.  And  if,  still  led  away  by  your  natural 
bent,  yoii  desire  to  read  books  of  achievements  and  of  chivalry, 
read  the  Book  of  Judges  in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  for  there  you 
will  find  grand  reality,  and  deeds  as  true  as  they  are  heroic. 
Lusitania  had  a  Viriatus,  Rome  a  Caesar,  (Jarthage  a  Hannibal, 
Greece  an  Alexander,  Castile  a  Count  Fernan  Gonzalez,  Valen- 
cia a  Cid,  Andalusia  a  Gonzalo  Fernandez,  Estremadura  a 
Diego  Garcia  de  Paredes,  Jerez  a  Garci  Perez  de  Vargas, 
Toledo  a  Garcilaso,  Seville  a  Don  Manuel  de  Leon,^  to  read  of 
whose  valiant  deeds  will  entertain  and  instruct  the  loftiest 
minds  and  till  them  Avith  delight  and  wonder.  Here,  Senor 
Don  Quixote,  will  l)e  reading  worthy  of  your  sound  under- 
standing ;  from  which  you  will  rise  learned  in  history,  in  love 
with  virtue,  strengtrhened  in  goodness,  improved  in  manners, 
brave  without  rashness,  prudent  without  cowardice ;  and  all 
to  the  honor  of  (xod,  your  own  advantage  and  the  glory  of  La 
Mancha,  whence,  I  am  informed,  your  worship  derives  your 
birth  and  origin." 

Don  Quixote  listened  with  the  greatest  attention  to  the 
canon's  words,  and  when  he  found  he  had  finished,  after  re- 
garding him  for  some  time,  he  replied  to  him,  "  It  appears  to 
me,  gentle  sir,  that  your  worship's  discourse  is  intended  to 
persuade  me  that  there  never  were  any  knights-errant  in  the 
world,  and  that  all  the  books  of  chivalry  are  false,  lying,  mis- 
chievous, and  useless  to  the  State,  and  that  I  have  done  wrong 
in  reading  them,  and  worse  in  believing  them,  and  still  worse 
in  imitating  them,  when  I  undertook  to  follow  the  arduous 
calling  of  knight-errantry  which  they  set  forth  ;  for  you  deny 

'  Count  Ferniin  Gonz  ilez  of  Ca.'^tile,  tlie  Iuto  of  many  ballads,  ttourislu'd 
in  the  tenth  century ;  for  Gonzalo  Fernandez,  or  Hernandez,  and  Diego 
Garcia  de  Paredes  see  notes  to  chapter  xxxii. :  Garcia  Perez  de  Vargas  is 
the  hero  of  more  than  one  ballad,  but  from  the  mention  of  Jerez  it  may  be 
that  Cervantes  meant  Diego  Perez  de  Vargas,  who,  at  the  siege  of  Jerez, 
performed  the  feat  that  got  him  the  name  of  the  Pounder.  (See  chapter 
viii.)  Garcilaso  is  not  the  poet  but  an  ancestor  of  his,  known  as  "  el  del 
Ave  Maria,"  from  having  slain  at  the  battle  of  the  Salado  a  Moor  who 
appeared  with  a  label  bearing  the  words  "Ave  Maria"  tied  to  his  horse's 
tail;  an  exploit  generally  said  to  have  been  performed  at  (Jranada.  Don 
Manuel  Ponce  de  Leon  was  a  knight  of  the  time  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella, who  figures  in  the  ballads  of  the  Siege  of  Granada ;  for  him  see 
note  to  chapter  xvii.  Part  II. 


420  DON    QUIXOTE. 

tliat  there  ever  were  Amadises  of  Gaul  or  of  Greece,  or  any 
other  of  the  knights  of  whom  the  books  are  fulL" 

"  It  is  all  exactly  as  you  state  it,"  said  the  canon ;  to  which 
Don  Quixote  returned,  "  You  also  went  on  to  say  that  books  of 
this  kind  had  done  nie  much  harm,  inasmuch  as  they  had  up- 
set my  senses,  and  shut  me  up  in  a  cage,  and  that  it  woiild  be 
better  for  me  to  reform  and  change  my  studies,  and  read  other 
truer  books  which  would  afford  more  pleasure  and  instruction." 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  canon. 

"  Well  then,"  returned  Don  Quixote,  "  to  my  mind  it  is  you 
who  are  the  one  that  is  out  of  his  wits  and  enchanted,  as  you 
have  ventured  to  utter  such  blasphemies  against  a  thing  so 
universally  acknowledged  and  accepted  as  true  that  whoever 
denies  it,  as  you  do,  deserves  the  same  punishment  which  you 
say  you  inflict  on  the  books  that  irritate  you  when  you  read 
them.  For  to  try  to  persuade  anybody  that  Amadis,  and  all  the 
other  knights-adventurers  with  whom  the  books  are  filled,  never 
existed,  would  be  like  trying  to  persuade  him  that  the  sun  does 
not  yield  light,  or  ice  cold,  or  earth  nourishment.  What  wit 
in  the  world  can  persuade  another  that  the  story  of  the  Princess 
Floripes  and  Guy  of  Burgundy  is  not  true,  or  that  of  rieral;)ras 
and  the  bridge  of  jNIantible,  which  happened  in  the  time  of 
Charlemagne  ?  ^  For  by  all  that  is  good  it  is  as  true  as  that 
it  is  daylight  now  ;  and  if  it  be  a  lie,  it  must  be  a  lie  too  that 
there  was  a  Hector,  or  Achilles,  or  Trojan  war,  or  Twelve 
Peers  of  France,  or  Arthur  of  England,  who  still  lives  changed 
into  a  raven,  and  is  unceasingly  looked  for  in  his  kingdom. 
One  might  just  as  well  try  to  make  out  that  the  history  of 
Guarino  Mezquino,^  or  of  the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail,  is  false, 
or  that  the  loves  of  Tristram  and  the  Queen  Yseult  are 
apocryphal,  as  well  of  those  of  Guinevere  and  Lancelot, 
when  there  are  persons  who  can  almost  remember  having  seen 
the  Dame  Quintaiiona,  who  was  the  best  cup-bearer  in  Great 
Britain.  And  so  true  is  this,  that  I  recollect  a  grandmother  of 
mine  on  the  father's  side,  whenever  she  saw  any  dame  in  a 

'  The  Princess  Floripes  was  the  sister  of  Fierabras,  and  wife  of  Guy 
of  Burgundy,  a  nephew  of  Charlemagne.  The  bridge  of  Mantible,  re- 
ferred to  in  the  History  of  Charlemagne,  was  defended  by  the  giant 
Galafre  supported  by  the  Turks,  but  carried  by  Charlemagne  with  the 
help  of  Fierabras.  The  Estremaduran  peasants  have  given  the  name  to 
the  ruins  of  the  old  Roman  bridge  over  the  Tagus  at  Alconetar,  north  of 
Caceres. 

^  A  romance  of  the  Charlemagne  series,  originally  written  in  Italian, 
but  translated  into  Spanish  in  1527. 


CHAPTER    XLIX.  421 

venerable  hood,  used  to  say  to  nie,  '  Grandson,  that  one  is  like 
Dame  Quintaiiona  ; '  from  Avhicli  T  conclude  that  she  must 
have  known  her,  or  at  least  had  numaged  to  see  some  portrait 
of  her.  Then  who  can  deny  that  the  story  of  Pierres  and  the 
fair  Magalona  ^  is  true,  when  even  to  this  day  may  be  seen  in 
the  king's  armory  the  Y)in  Avith  Avliich  the  valiant  IMerres 
guided  the  wooden  horse  he  rode  through  the  air,  and  it  is  a 
trifle  bigger  than  the  pole  of  a  cart  ?  And  alongside  of  the 
])in  is  Babieca's  saddle,  and  at  Roncesvalles  there  is  Roland's 
horn,  as  large  as  a  large  beam  ;  "^  whence  we  may  infer  that 
there  were  Twelve  Peers,  and  a  Pierres,  and  a  Cid,  and  other 
knights  like  them,  of  the  sort  people  commonly  call  advent- 
urers. Or  perhaps  I  shall  be  told,  too,  that  there  was  no  such 
knight-errant  as  the  valiant  Lusitanian  Juan  de  Merlo,  who 
went  to  Burgundy  and  in  the  city  of  A]-ras  fought  with  the 
famous  lord  of  Charny,  Mosen  Pierres  by  name,  and  afterwards 
in  the  city  of  Basle  with  Mosen  Enrique  de  Remestan,  coming 
out  of  both  encounters  covered  with  fame  and  honor  ;  *  or  ad- 
ventures and  challenges  achieved  and  delivered,  also  in  Bur- 
gundy, by  the  valiant  Spaniards  Pedro  Barba  and  Gutierre 
Quixada  (of  whose  family  I  come  in  the  direct  male  line),  when 
they  vanquished  the  sons  of  the  Count  of  San  Polo.  I  shall 
be  told,  too,  that  Don  Fernando  de  Guevara  did  not  go  in  quest 
of  adventures  to  Germany,  where  he  engaged  in  combat  with 
Micer  George,  a  knight  of  the  house  of  the  Duke  of  Austria.* 
I  shall  be  told  that  the  jousts  of  Suero  de  Quiiiones,  him  of  the 
'  Paso,'  ^  and  the  emprise  of  Mosen  Luis  de  Falces  "^  against  the 

'  The  history  of  Pierres  and  Magalona  is  a  rroven9al  romance  written 
in  tlie  twelfth  century  by  Bernardo  Treviez,  and  transUited  into  Spanish 
apparently  as  early  as  1519. 

*  The  "dread  horn  of  Roland,"  Olifant,  was,  in  fact,  an  elephant's  tusk. 
^  Juan  de  Merlo  was  a  Portuguese  knight  in  the  reign  of  John  II.  of  Cas- 
tile, whose  deeds  are  celebrated  by  Juan  de  Menain  the  Laberinto(VJ8,  lOd). 

■•  Fernando  de  Giievara  was  another  knight  of  tlie  time  of  John  11. 

*  The  "  Paso  Ilonroso  "  was  one  of  the  most  famous  feats  of  cliivalry 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  Suero  de  Quiiiones,  a  knight  of  Leon,  with  nine 
others,  undertook  in  U34  to  hold  the  bridge  of  Orbigo,  near  Astorga, 
against  all  comers  for  thirty  days.  Each  was  to  break  three  lances  with 
every  gentleman  who  presented  himself.  There  were  727  encounters  and 
16G  lances  broken.  An  account  of  it  was  written  l)y  a  contemporary,  Pero 
Kodriguez  de  Lena,  secretary  of  Jolin  II.,  whicli  was  afterwards  re-edited 
by  Juan  de  Pineda,  and  printed  at  Salamanca  in  1588  luider  the  title  of 
Lihro  del  Paso  Honroso.  It  is  appended  to  the  Cronica  de  Alvaro  de 
Luna,  Madrid,  1784. 

*  A  knight  of  Navarre  mentioned  in  the  Cronica  of  John  II.  and  in 
Zurita's  Annals  of  Aragon. 


422  DON    QUIXOTE. 

Castilian  knight,  Don  Gonzalo  cle  Guzman,  were  mere  mock- 
eries ;  as  well  as  many  other  achievements  of  Christian  knights 
of  these  and  foreign  realms,  which  are  so  authentic  and  true, 
that,  I  repeat,  he  who  denies  them  must  be  totally  Avanting  in 
reason  and  good  sense." 

The  canon  was  amazed  to  hear  the  medley  of  truth  and 
fiction  Don  Quixote  uttered,  and  to  see  how  Avell  acquainted 
he  was  with  everything  relating  or  belonging  to  the  achieve- 
ments of  his  knight-errantry  ;  so  he  said  in  reply,  "  I  can  not 
deny,  Seilor  Don  Quixote,  that  tliere  is  some  truth  in  what  you 
say,  especially  as  regards  the  Spanish  knights-errant ;  and  I 
ani  Avilling  to  grant  too  that  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  ex- 
isted, V)ut  I  am  not  disposed  to  believe  that  they  did  all  the 
things  that  the  Archbishop  Turpin  relates  of  them.^  For  the 
trutii  of  the  matter  is  they  were  knights  chosen  by  the  kings 
of  France,  and  called  '  Peers '  because  they  were  all  equal  in 
worth,  rank,  and  prowess  (at  least  if  they  Avere  not  they  ought 
to  have  been),  and  it  was  a  kind  of  religious  order  like  those 
of  Santiago  and  Calatrava  in  the  present  day,  in  which  it  is 
assumed  that  those  who  take  it  are  valiant  knights  of  distinc- 
tion and  good  birth  ;  and  just  as  we  say  now  a  knight  of  St. 
John,  or  of  Alcantara,  they  used  to  say  then  a  Knight  of  the 
Twelve  Peers,^  because  twelve  equals  Avere  chosen  for  the 
military  order.  That  there  Avas  a  Cid,  as  Avell  as  a  pjernardo 
del  Carpio,  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  but  that  they  did  the  deeds 
people  say  they  did,  I  hold  to  be  very  doubtful.^  In  that 
other  matter  of  the  pin  of  Coimt  Pierres  that  you  speak  of, 
and  say  is  near  Babieca's  saddle  in  the  Armory,  I  confess  my 
sin ;  for  I  am  either  so  stupid  or  so  short-sighted,  that,  though 
I  have  seen  the  saddle,  I  have  never  been  able  to  see  the  pin, 
in  spite  of  it  being  as  big  as  your  Avorship  says  it  is." 

'•  For  all  that  it  is  there.  Avithout  any  manner  of  doubt," 
said  Don  Quixote ;  "'  and  more  by  token  they  say  it  is  enclosed 
in  a  sheath  of  cowhide  to  keep  it  from  rusting." 

"  All  that  may  be,"  replied  the  canon ;  '-  but,  by  the  orders  I 

'  See  note  on  Turpin.  cliapter  vii. 

•  No  siK-h  title  as  Knight  of  the  Twelve  Peers  ever  existed. 

3  With  regard  to  the  Cid  the  canon  is  quite.'  right :  there  is  no  historical 
foundation  for  three-fourths  of  the  aehievenients  attributed  to  him  by  the 
ballads  and  eronicas.  As  to  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  there  may  be,  of  course, 
some  nucleus  of  fact  round  which  the  legends  have  clustered,  but  that  is 
all  that  can  be  said  for  his  existence.  The  saddle  of  the  Cid  is  not  now 
among  the  treasures  of  the  Armeria  at  Madrid,  if  indeed  it  ever  was. 


CHAPTER    L.  423 

have  received,  I  do  not  rememljer  seeing  it.  However,  grant- 
ing it  is  there,  that  is  no  reason  why  I  ani  bound  to  l)elieve  the 
stories  of  all  those  Amadises  and  of  all  that  multitude  of  knights 
they  tell  us  about,  nor  is  it  reasonable  that  a  man  like  your  wor- 
ship, so  worthy,  and  with  so  many  good  qualities,  and  endowed 
with  such  a  good  understanding,  should  allow  himself  to  be 
persuaded  that  such  wild  crazy  things  as  are  written  in  those 
absurd  books  of  chivalry  are  really  true." 


CHAPTER  L. 


OF  THE  SHREWD    COXTROVERSY    WHICH    DOX  QUIXOTE  AXD  THE 
CAXOX  HELD,  TOGETHER  WITH  OTHER    IXCIDEXTS. 

"  A  GOOD  joke,  that !  "  returned  Don  Quixote.  <■'  Books  that 
have  been  printed  with  the  king's  license,  and  with  the  appro- 
bation of  those  to  whom  they  have  been  submitted,  and  read 
with  universal  delight,  and  extolled  by  great  and  small,  rich 
and  poor,  learned  and  ignorant,  gentle  and  simple,  in  a  word  by 
people  of  every  sort,  of  whatever  rank  or  condition  they  may 
be  —  that  these  should  be  lies  !  And  above  all  when  they  carry 
such  an  appearance  of  truth  with  them  ;  for  they  tell  us  the 
father,  mother,  country,  kindred,  age,  place,  and  the  achieve- 
ments, step  by  step,  and  day  by  day,  performed  by  such  and 
such  a  knight  or  knights  !  Hush,  sir ;  utter  not  such  blasphemy  ; 
trust  me  I  am  advising  you  now  to  act  as  a  sensible  man  should ; 
only  read  them,  and  3'ou  will  see  the  pleasure  you  will  derive 
from  them.  For,  come,  tell  me,  can  there  be  anything  more 
delightful  than  to  see,  as  it  were,  here  now  displayed  before  us 
a  vast  lake  of  bubbling  pitch  with  a  host  of  snakes  and  serpents 
and  lizards,  and  ferocious  and  terrible  creatures  of  all  sorts 
swimming  aljout  in  it,  while  from  the  middle  of  the  lake  there 
comes  a  plaintive  voice  saying  :  '  Knight,  whosoever  thou  art 
who  beholdest  this  dread  lake,  if  thou  wouldst  win  the  prize 
that  lies  hidden  beneath  these  dusky  waves,  prove  the  valor  of 
thy  stout  heart  and  cast  thyself  into  the  midst  of  its  dark  burn- 
ing waters,  else  thou  shalt  not  be  worthy  to  see  the  mighty 
wonders  contained  in  the  seven  castles  of  the  seven  Fays  that 
lie  beneath  this  black  expanse  ;  '  and  then  the  knight,  almost 
ere  the  awful  voice  has  ceased,  without  stopping  to  consider, 


424  DON    QUIXOTE. 

without  pausing  to  reflect  upon  the  danger  to  which  he  is  ex- 
posing himself,  without  even  relieving  himself  of  the  weight  of 
his  massive  armor,  commending  himself  to  God  and  to  his  lady, 
plunges  into  the  mist  of  the  boiling  lake,  and  when  he  little 
looks  for  it,  or  knows  what  his  fate  is  to  be,  he  finds  himself 
among  flowery  meadows,  with  which  the  Elysian  fields  are  not 
to  be  compared.  The  sky  seems  more  transparent  there,  and 
the  sun  shines  with  a  strange  brilliancy,  and  a  delightful  grove 
of  green  leafy  trees  presents  itself  to  the  eyes  and  charms  the 
sight  with  its  verdure,  while  the  ear  is  soothed  by  the  sweet 
imtutored  melody  of  the  countless  birds  of  gay  plumage  that 
flit  to  and  fro  among  the  interlacing  branches.  Here  he  sees  a 
l)rook  whose  limpid  Avaters,  like  liquid  crystal,  ripple  over  fine 
saiids  and  white  pebbles  that  look  like  sifted  gold  and  purest 
pearls.  There  he  perceives  a  cunningly  wrought  fountain  of 
many-colored  jasper  and  polished  marble  ;  here  another  of 
rustic  fashion  where  the  little  mussel-shells  and  the  spiral  white 
and  yellow  mansions  of  the  snail  disposed  in  studious  disorder, 
mingled  Avith  fragmentsof  glittering  crystal  and  mock  emeralds, 
)nake  up  a  work  of  varied  aspect,  Avhere  art,  imitating  nature, 
seems  to  have  outdone  it.  Suddenly  there  is  presented  to  his 
sight  a  strong  castle  or  gorgeous  palace  Avith  Avails  of  massy 
gold,  turrets  of  diamond  and  gates  of  jacinth ;  in  short,  so 
marvellous  is  its  structure  that  though  the  materials  of  which 
it  is  l)nilt  are  nothing  less  than  diamonds,  carbuncles,  rubies, 
pearls,  gold,  and  emeralds,  the  Avorknuinship  is  still  more  rare. 
And  after  having  seen  all  this,  Avhat  can  be  more  charming 
than  to  see  how  a  bevy  of  damsels  comes  forth  from  the  gate  of 
the  castle  in  gay  and  gorgeous  attire,  such  that,  Avere  I  to  set 
myself  uoav  to  depict  it  as  the  histories  describe  it  to  us,  I 
should  never  have  done  ;  and  then  how  she  Avho  seems  to  be 
the  first  among  them  all  takes  the  bold  knight  Avho  plunged 
into  the  boiling  lake  by  the  hand,  and  Avithout  addressing  a 
Avord  to  him  leads  him  into  the  rich  palace  or  castle,  and  stri})s 
him  as  naked  as  when  his  nu)lher  bore  him,  and  bathes  him  in 
lukewarm  Avater,  and  anoints  him  all  over  Avith  SAveet-smelling 
unguents,  and  clothes  him  in  a  shirt  of  the  softest  sendal,  all 
scented  and  perfumed,  Avhile  another  damsel  comes  and  throAvs 
over  his  shoulders  a  mantle  Avhich  is  said  to  be  Avorth  at  the  very 
least  a  city,  and  even  more  ?  How  charming  it  is,  then,  Avhen 
tliey  tell  us  hoAv,  after  all  this,  they  lead  him  to  another  cham- 
ber Avliere  he  finds  the  tables  set  out  in  such  style  that  he  is 


CHAPTER    L.  425 

filled  with  amazement  and  wonder  ;  to  see  how  they  pour  out 
water  for  his  hands  distilled  from  amber  and  sweet-scented 
flowers  ;  how  they  'seat  him  on  an  ivory  chair  ;  to  see  how  the 
damsels  wait  on  him  all  in  profound  silence  ;  how  they  bring 
him  such  a  variety  of  dainties  so  temptingly  prepared  that  the 
appetite  is  at  a  loss  which  to  select ;  to  hear  the  music  that  re- 
sounds while  he  is  at  ta])le,  by  whom  or  whence  produced  he 
knows  not.  And  then  when  the  repast  is  over  and  the  tables 
removed,  for  the  knight  to  recline  in  the  chair,  picking  his 
teeth  perhaps  as  usual,  and  a  damsel,  much  lovelier  than  any 
of  the  others,  to  enter  unexpectedly  by  the  chamber  door,  and 
seat  herself  by  his  side,  and  begin  to  tell  him  what  the  castle 
is,  and  how  she  is  held  enclianted  there,  and  other  things  that 
amaze  the  knight  and  astonish  the  readers  who  are  })erusing  his 
history.  But  I  Avill  not  expatiate  any  further  u})on  this,  as  it 
may  be  gathered  from  it  that  whatever  part  of  whatever  history 
of  a  knight-errant  one  reads,  it  Avill  fill  the  reader,  whoever  he  be, 
with  delight  and  wonder  ;  and  take  my  advice,  sir,  and,  as  I  said 
before,  read  these  books  and  you  will  see  how  they  will  banish 
any  jnelancholy  you  may  feel  and  raise  yoiir  spirits  should  they 
be  depressed.  For  myself  1  can  say  that  since  I  have  been  a 
knight-errant  I  have  become  valiant,  polite,  generous,  well-bred, 
magnanimous,  courteous,  dauntless,  gentle,  patient,  and  have 
learned  to  bear  hardships,  imprisonments,  and  enchantments  ; 
and  though  it  be  such  a  short  time  since  I  have  seen  myself 
shut  up  in  a  cage  like  a  madman,  I  hope  by  the  might  of  my 
arm,  if  Heaven  aid  me  and  fortune  thwart  me  not,  to  see  myself 
king  of  some  kingdom  where  I  may  be  able  to  show  the  grati- 
tude  and  generosity  that  dwell  in  my  heart ;  for  by  my  faith, 
senor,  the  poor  man  is  incapacitated  from  showing  the  virtue 
of  generosity  to  any  one,  though  he  may  possess  it  in  the  high- 
est degree  ;  and  gratitude  that  consists  of  disposition  only  is  a 
dead  thing,  just  as  faith  without  works  is  dead.  For  this 
reason  I  should  be  glad  were  fortiuie  soon  to  offer  me  some 
opportunity  of  making  myself  an  emperor,  so  as  to  show  my 
heart  in  doing  good  to  my  friends,  particularly  to  this  poor 
Sancho  Panza,  my  sc[uire,  who  is  the  best  fellow  in  the  world ; 
and  I  would  gladly  give  him  a  county  I  have  promised  him  this 
ever  so  long,  only  that  I  am  afraid  he  has  not  the  capacity  to 
govern  his  realm." 

Sancho  partly  heard  these  last  words  of  his  master,  and  said 
to  him,  ''  Strive  hard  you,  Senor  Don  Quixote,  to  give  me  that 


426  DON    QUIXOTE. 

county  so  often  promised  by  you  and  so  long  looked  for  by  me, 
for  I  promise  you  there  will  be  no  want  of  capacity  in  me  to 
govern  it ;  and  even  if  there  is,  I  have  heard  say  there  are  men 
in  the  world  who  farm  seigniories,  paying  so  much  a  year,  and 
they  themselves  taking  charge  of  the  government,  while  the 
lord,  with  his  legs  stretched  out,  enjoys  the  revenue  they  pay 
him,  without  troubling  himself  about  anything  else.  That's 
what  I  '11  do,  and  not  stand  haggling  over  trifles,  but  wash  my 
hands  at  once  of  the  whole  business,  and  enjoy  my  rents  like  a 
duke,  and  let  things  go  their  own  way." 

"  That,  brother  Sancho,"  said  the  canon,  "  only  holds  good 
as  far  as  the  enjoyment  of  the  revenue  goes ;  but  the  lord  of 
the  seigniory  must  attend  to  the  administration  of  justice,  and 
here  capacity  and  sound  judgment  come  in,  and  above  all  a 
firm  determination  to  find  out  the  truth ;  for  if  this  be  wanting 
in  the  beginning,  the  middle  and  the  end  will  always  go  wrong ; 
and  Cxod  as  commonly  aids  the  honest  intentions  of  the  simple 
as  he  frustrates  the  evil  designs  of  the  crafty." 

"  I  don't  understand  those  philosophies,"  returned  Sancho 
Panza :  "  all  I  know  is  I  would  I  had  the  county  as  soon  as  I 
shall  know  how  to  govern  it ;  for  I  have  as  much  soul  as  an- 
other, and  as  much  body  as  any  one,  and  I  shall  be  as  much 
king  of  my  realm  as  any  other  of  his  ;  and  being  so  I  should 
do  as  I  liked,  and  doing  as  I  liked  I  should  please  myself,  and 
pleasing  myself  I  should  be  content,  and  when  one  is  content 
he  has  nothing  more  to  desire,  and  when  one  has  nothing  more 
to  desire  there  is  an  end  of  it ;  so  let  the  county  come,  and  God 
be  with  you,  and  let  us  see  one  another,  as  one  blind  man  said 
to  the  other." 

"  That  is  not  bad  philosophy  thou  art  talking,  Sancho,"  said 
the  canon  ;  "  but  for  all  that  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on 
this  matter  of  counties." 

To  which  Don  Quixote  returned,  "  I  know  not  what  more 
there  is  to  be  said ;  ^  I  only  guide  myself  by  the  example  set 
me  by  the  great  Amadis  of  Gaul,  when  he  made  his  squire  count 
of  the  Insula  Firme  ;  and  so,  Avithout  any  sci'U])les  of  conscience, 
I  can  make  a  count  of  Sancho  Panza,  for  he  is  one  of  the  best 
squires  that  ever  knight-errant  had." 

The  canon  was  astonished  at  the  methodical  nonsense  (if 
nonsense  be  capable  of  method)  that  Don  Quixote  uttered,  at 

^  In  laCuesta's  thiril  edition  i>f  1G08  a  passage  is  inserted  here  for  ■which 
there  is  neither  autliority  nor  necessit}'. 


CHAPTER    L.  427 

the  way  in  whicli  lie  had  described  the  adventure  of  the  kni<,dit 
of  the  Like,  at  the  impression  that  the  deliberate  lies  of  the 
books  he  read  had  made  upon  him,  and  lastly  he  marvelled  at 
the  simplicity  of  Sancho,  who  desired  so  eagerly  to  obtain  the 
county  his  master  had  promised  him. 

By  this  time  the  canon's  servants,  who  had  gone  to  the  inn 
to  fetch  the  sumpter  mule,  had  returned,  and  making  a  carpet 
and  the  green  grass  of  the  meadow  serve  as  a  table,  they 
seated  themselves  in  the  shade  of  some  trees  and  made  their 
repast  there,  that  the  carter  might  not  be  deprived  of  the  ad- 
vantage of  the  spot,  as  has  been  already  said.  As  they  were 
eating  they  suddenly  heard  a  loud  noise  and  the  sound  of  a 
bell  tliat  seemed  to  come  from  among  some  brambles  and  thick 
bushes  that  were  close  by,  and  the  same  instant  they  observed 
a  beautiful  goat,  spotted  all  over  black,  white,  and  brown, 
spring  out  of  the  thicket  with  a  goatherd  after  it,  calling  to  it 
and  uttering  the  usual  cries  to  nuike  it  stop  or  turn  back  to 
the  fold.  The  fugitive  goat,  scared  and  frightened,  ran 
towards  the  company  as  if  seeking  their  protection  and  then 
stood  still,  and  the  goatherd  conung  up  seized  it  by  the  horns 
and  began  to  talk  to  it  as  if  it  were  possessed  of  reason  and 
understamliug :  ''Ah  wanderer,  wanderer,  Spotty,  S])()tty  ; 
how  have  you  gone  limping  all  this  time  ;''  What  wolves  have 
frightened  you,  my  daughter  ';''  Won't  you  tell  me  what  is  the 
matter,  my  beauty  ?  But  what  else  can  it  be  except  that  you 
are  a  she,  and  can  not  keep  qiuet ''  A  plague  on  your  humors 
and  the  humors  of  those  you  take  after !  Come  back,  come 
back,  my  darling ;  and  if  you  will  not  be  so  happy,  at  any  rate 
you  will  be  safe  in  the  fold  or  with  your  companions ;  for  if 
you  who  ought  to  keep  and  lead  them,  go  wandering  astray  in 
this  fashion,  what  will  become  of  them  ?  " 

The  goatherd's  talk  amused  all  who  heard  it,  but  especially 
the  canon,  who  said  to  him,  "  As  you  live,  brother,  take  it 
easy,  and  be  not  in  such  a  hurry  to  drive  this  goat  back  to  the 
fold ;  for,  being  a  female,  as  you  say,  she  will  follow  her 
natural  instinct  in  spite  of  all  you  can  do  to  prevent  it.  Take 
this  morsel  and  drink  a  sup,  and  that  Avill  soothe  your  irrita- 
tion, and  in  the  mean  time  the  goat  will  rest  herself,"  and  so 
saying,  he  handed  him  the  loins  of  a  cold  rabbit  on  a  fork. 

The  goatherd  took  it  with  thanks,  and  drank  and  calmed 
himself,  and  then  said,  "  I  should  l)e  sorry  if  your  worships 
were  to  take  me  for  a  simpleton  for  having  spoken  so  seriously 


428  DON    QUIXOTE. 

as  I  did  to  this  animal ;  but  tlie  truth  is  there  is  a  certain 
mystery  in  the  words  I  used.  I  am  a  clown,  but  not  so  much 
of  one  but  that  I  know  how  to  behave  to  men  and  to  beasts." 

"  That  I  can  well  believe,"  said  the  curate,  "  for  I  know 
already  by  experience  that  the  woods  breed  men  of  learning, 
and  shepherds'  huts  harbor  philosophers." 

"  At  all  events,  seiior,"  returned  the  goatherd,  "  they  shelter 
men  of  experience  ;  and  that  you  may  see  the  truth  of  this  and 
grasp  it,  though  I  may  seem  to  put  myself  forward  without 
being  asked,  I  will,  if  it  will  not  tire  you,  gentlemen,  and  you 
will  give  me  your  attention  foi-  a  little,  tell  you  a  true  story 
which  will  confirm  this  gentleman's  words  (and  he  pointed  to 
the  curate)  as  well  as  my  own." 

To  this  Don  Quixote  replied,  "  Seeing  that  this  affair  has  a 
certain  color  of  chivalry  about  it,  I  for  my  part,  brother,  Avill 
hear  you  most  gladly,  and  so  will  all  these  gentlemen,  from 
the  high  intelligence  they  possess  and  their  love  of  curious 
novelties  that  interest,  charm,  and  entertain  the  mind,  as  I 
feel  (piite  sure  your  story  will  do.  So  begin,  friend,  for  we 
are  all  })repared  to  listen." 

"  I  draw  my  stakes,"  ^  said  Sancho,  ''  and  will  retreat  with 
this  pasty  to  the  brook  there,  where  I  mean  to  victual  myself 
for  three  days ;  for  I  have  heard  my  lord,  Don  Quixote,  say 
that  a  knight-errant's  squire  should  eat  until  he  can  hold  no 
more,  whenever  he  has  the  chance,  because  it  often  happens 
them  to  get  by  accident  into  a  wood  so  thick  that  they  can  not 
find  a  way  out  of  it  for  six  days  ;  and  if  the  man  is  not  well 
filled  or  his  alforjas  well  stored,  there  he  may  stay,  as  very 
often  he  does,  turned  into  a  dried  mummy." 

"  Thou  art  in  the  right  of  it,  Sancho,"  said  Don  Quixote ; 
*'  go  where  thou  wilt  and  eat  all  thou  canst,  for  I  have  had 
enough,  and  only  want  to  give  my  mind  its  refreshment,  as  I 
shall  by  listening  to  this  good  fellow's  story." 

"It  is  what  we  shall  all  do,"  said  the  canon  ;  and  then 
begged  the  goatherd  to  begin  the  promised  tale. 

The  goatherd  gave  the  goat  which  he  held  by  the  horns  a 
couple  of  slaps  on  the  back,  saying,  "  Lie  down  here  beside 
me,  Spotty,  for  we  have  time  enough  to  return  to  our  fold." 
The  goat  seemed  to  understand  him,  for  as  her  master  seated 
himself,  she   stretched  herself  quietly  beside  him  and  looked 

'  Tlie  phrase  used  only  by  a  player  who  wishes  to  withdraw  from  a 
game. 


CHAPTER    LI.  429 

up  ill  his  face  to  show  him  slie  was  all  attention  to  what 
he  was  going  to  say,  and  then  in  these  words  he  began  his 
story. 


CHAPTEK   LI. 

WHICH    DEALS    WITH    WHAT    THE    GOATHERD    TOLD    THOSE    WHO 
WERE    CARRYING    OFF    DON    QUIXOTE. 

Three  leagues  from  this  valley  there  is  a  village  which,  though 
small,  is  oue  of  the  richest  in  all  this  neighborhood,  and  in  it  tliere 
lived  a  farmer,  a  very  worthy  man,  and  so  much  respecletl  tliat, 
although  to  be  so  is  the  natural  consequence  of  being  ricli,  he  was 
even  more  respected  for  his  virtue  tiian  for  the  wealth  he  had  acquired. 
But  what  made  him  still  more  fortunate,  as  he  said  himself,  was  having 
a  daughter  of  such  exceeding  beauty,  rare  intelligence,  gracefulness, 
and  virtue,  that  every  one  who  knew  her  and  beheld  her  marvelled  at 
the  extraordinary  gifts  with  which  heaven  and  earth  had  endowed  her. 
As  a  child  she  was  beautiful,  she  continued  to  grow  in  beauty,  and  at 
the  age  of  sixteen  she  was  most  lovely.  The  fame  of  her  beauty 
began  to  spread  abroad  through  all  the  villages  around  —  but  why  do 
I  say  the  villages  around,  merely,  wlien  it  spread  to  distant  cities, 
and  even  made  its  way  into  the  halls  of  royalty  and  reached  the  ears 
of  people  of  every  class,  who  came  from  all  sides  to  see  her  as  if  to 
see  something  rare  and  curious,  or  some  wonder-working  image  ? 

Her  father  watched  over  her  and  she  watched  over  herself;  for 
there  are  no  locks,  or  guards,  or  bolts  that  can  protect  a  young  girl  bet- 
ter than  her  own  modesty.  The  wealth  of  the  father  and  the  beauty  of 
the  daugliter  led  many  neiglibors  as  well  as  strangers  to  seek  her  for 
a  wife ;  but  he,  as  one  might  well  be  who  had  tlie  disposal  of  so  rich 
a  jewel,  was  perplexed  and  unable  to  make  up  his  mind  to  which  of 
her  countless  suitors  he  should  intrust  her.  I  was  one  among  tlu; 
many  who  felt  a  desire  so  natural,  and,  as  her  father  knew  who  I 
was,  and  I  was  of  the  same  town,  of  pure  blood,  in  the  bloom  of  life, 
and  very  rich  in  possessions,  I  had  great  hopes  <if  success.  There 
was  another  of  the  same  place  and  qualilications  who  also  sought  her, 
and  this  made  her  father's  choice  hang  in  the  balance,  for  he  felt 
that  on  either  of  us  his  daughter  would  be  well  bestowed  ;  so  to  es- 
cape from  this  state  of  perplexity  he  resolved  to  refer  the  matter  to 
Leandra  (for  that  is  the  name  of  tlie  rich  damsel  who  has  reduced  nu; 
to  misery),  reflecting  that  as  we  Avere  both  equal  it  would  be  best  to 
leave  it  to  his  dear  daughter  to  choose  according  to  her  inclination  — 
a  course  tliat  is  worthy  of  imitation  Ijy  all  fathers  who  wish  to  settle 
their  childreu  in  life.  I  do  not  mean  that  they  ought  to  leave  them  to 
make  a  choice  of  what  is  contemptible  and  bad,  but  that  they  should 
place  before  them  what  is  good  and  then  allow  them  to  make  a  good 
choice  as  they  please.     I  do  not  know  which  Leandra  chose;  1  only 


430  DON    QUIXOTE. 

know  hei'  father  put  us  off  with  the  tender  age  of  his  daughter  and 
vague  words  that  neither  bound  him  nor  dismissed  us.  My  rival  is 
called  Anselmo  and  I  myself  Eugenio  —  that  you  may  know  the 
names  of  the  personages  that  figure  in  this  traged}',  the  end  of  which 
is  still  in  suspense,  though  it  is  plain  to  see  it  must  be  disastrous. 

About  this  time  tiiere  arrived  in  our  town  one  Vicente  de  la  Roca, 
the  son  of  a  po<n-  peasant  of  the  same  town,  the  said  Vicente  having 
returned  from  service  as  a  soldier  in  Italy  and  divers  other  parts. 
A  captain  who  chanced  to  pass  that  way  with  his  company  had  carried 
liim  off  from  our  village  when  he  was  a  boy  of  about  twelve  years, 
and  now  twelve  }'ears  later  the  young  man  came  back  in  a  soldier's 
uniform,  arrayed  in  a  thousand  colors,  and  all  over  glass  trinkets  and 
line  steel  chains.  To-day  he  would  appear  in  one  gay  dress,  to-mor- 
row in  another;  but  all  flimsy  and  gamly,  of  little  substance  and  less 
worth.  Tlie  peasant  folk,  who  are  naturally  malicious,  and  when 
they  have  nothing  to  do  can  be  malice  itself,  remarked  all  this,  and 
took  note  of  his  finery  and  jewellery,  piece  by  piece,  and  discovered 
that  lie  liad  tlu'ee  suits  of  different  colors,  with  garters  and  stockings 
to  match  ;  Init  he  made  so  many  arrangements  and  combinations 
out  of  them,  that  if  tliey  had  not  counted  them,  any  one  would  have 
sworn  tiiat  he  had  made  a  display  of  more  than  ten  suits  of  clothes 
and  twenty  plumes.  Do  not  look  upon  all  this  that  I  am  telling  you 
about  the  clothes  as  uncalled  for  or  spun  out,  tor  they  have  a  great 
deal  to  do  with  the  story.  lie  used  to  seat  himself  on  a  bench  under 
the  great  poplar  in  (uir  ])laza  ;  an<l  there  he  would  keep  us  all  hanging 
open-moutlicd  on  the  stories  he  tohl  us  of  his  exploits.  There  was 
no  country  on  the  face  of  the  globe  he  had  not  seen,  nor  battle  he 
had  not  been  engaged  in;  he  iiad  killed  more  Moors  than  there  are 
in  Moi'occo  and  Tunis,  and  fought  more  single  combats,  according 
to  his  own  account,  than  (iarcilaso,'  Diego  Garcia  de  Paredes  and 
a  thousand  others  he  named,  and  out  of  all  he  iiad  come  victorious 
without  losing  a  drop  of  blood.  On  the  other  hand  he  showed  marks 
of  wounds,  whi(;h,  though  they  could  not  be  made  out,  he  said  were 
gunshot  wounds  received  in  divers  encounters  and  actions.  Lastly, 
with  monstrous  impudence  lie  used  to  say  "  you'"  to  his  equals  and 
even  those  who  knew  what  he  was,  and  declare  that  his  arm  was  his 
father  and  his  deeds  his  pedigree,  and  that  being  a  soldier  he  was  as 
jTood  as  the  kin":  himself.  And  to  add  to  these  swaggerino;  ways  he 
was  a  trifle  of  a  musician,  and  played  the  guitar  with  such  a  flourish 
that  some  said  he  made  it  speak  ;  nor  did  his  accomplislmients  end 
here,  for  he  was  something  of  a  ))oet  too,  and  on  every  trifle  that 
hapjiened  in  the  town  he  made  a  ballad  a  league  and  a  half  long. 

This  soldier,  then,  that  I  have  described,  this  Vicente  de  la  Roca, 
this  bravo,  gallant,  musician,  poet,  was  often  seen  and  watched  by 
Leandra  from  a  window  of  her  house  which  looked  out  on  the  plaza. 
The  glitter  of  his  showy  attire  took  her  fancy,  his  ballads  bewitched 

^  The  oriuiaal  editions  have  "  Gante  y  Luna,"  which  are  not  names  of 
persons  known  in  connection  with  any  feats  of  the  kind  described.  Gar- 
cilaso  {v.  J).  41!l)  is  nuich  more  likely  to  \>v  the  name  mentioned  witli 
Dietjo  Garcia  de  Paredes. 


VINCENT   DE   LA    ROSA.      Vol.  I.      Page  431. 


CHAPTER    LI.  431 

her  (for  he  gave  away  twenty  copies  of  eveiy  one  he  made),  the  tales 
of  his  exploits  which  he  told  about  himself  came  to  her  ears;  and  in 
short,  as  the  devil  no  doubt  hail  arranged  it,  she  fell  in  love  witli 
him  before  the  presumption  of  making  love  to  lier  had  suggested 
itself  to  him  ;  and  as  in  love-att'airs  none  are  more  easily  brought  to 
an  issue  than  those  which  have  the  inclination  of  the  lady  for  an  ally, 
Leandraand  'Vicente  came  to  an  understanding  without  any  difficulty  ; 
and  befoi-e  any  of  her  numerous  suitors  had  any  suspicion  of  her 
design,  she  had  already  carried  it  into  etfect,  having  left  the  house 
of  her  dearly  beloved  father  (for  mother  she  had  none),  and  dis- 
appeared from  the  village  with  the  soldier,  who  came  more  trium- 
phantly out  of  this  enterprise  than  out  of  any  of  the  large  number 
he  laid  claim  to.  All  tiie  village  and  all  who  heai-d  of  it  were 
amazed  at  the  affair;  I  was  aghast,  Anselmo  thunderstruck,  her 
father  full  of  grief,  her  relations  indignant,  the  authorities  all  in  a 
ferment,  the  officers  of  the  Brotherhood  all  in  arms.  They  scoured 
the  roads,  tliey  searched  the  woods  and  all  quarters,  and  at  the  end 
of  three  days  they  found  the  Highty  Leandra  in  a  mountain  cave, 
stript  to  her  shift,  and  robbed  of  all  the  money  and  precious  jewels 
she  had  carried  away  from  home  with  her.  They  brought  her  back 
to  her  unhajipy  father,  and  questioned  her  as  to  her  misfortune,  and 
she  confesse(l  without  pressure  tliat  Vicente  de  la  Roca  had  deceived 
her,  and  under  promise  of  marrying  her  had  induced  her  to  leave 
her  father's  house,  as  he  meant  to  take  her  to  the  richest  and  most 
delightful  city  in  the  whole  world,  which  was  Naples ;  and  that  she, 
ill-advised  and  deluded,  had  believed  him,  and  robbed  her  father, 
and  handed  over  all  to  him  the  night  she  disappeared;  and  that 
he  had  carried  her  away  to  a  rugged  mountain  and  shut  her  up  in 
the  cave  where  they  had  found  her.  She  said,  moreover,  that  the 
soldier,  without  robbing  her  of  her  honor,  had  taken  from  her  every- 
thing she  had,  and  made  off,  leaving  her  in  the  cave,  a  thing  that 
still  further  surprised  everybody.  It  was  not  easy  for  us  to  credit 
the  young  man's  continence,  but  she  asserted  it  with  such  earnestness 
that  it  helped  to  console  her  distressed  father,  Avho  thought  nothing 
of  what  had  been  taken  since  the  jewel  that  once  lost  can  never  be 
recovered  had  been  left  to  his  daughter.  The  same  day  that  Leandra 
made  her  appearance  lier  father  removed  her  from  our  sight  and 
took  her  away  to  shut  her  up  in  a  convent  in  a  town  near  this,  in  the 
hope  that  time  may  wear  away  some  of  the  disgrace  she  has  incurred. 
Leandra's  youth  furnished  an  excuse  for  her  fault,  at  least  with  those 
to  whom  it  was  of  no  conse(|iience  whether  she  was  good  or  bad  ; 
but  those  who  knew  her  shrewdness  and  intelligence  did  not  attribute 
her  misdemeanor  to  ignorance  but  to  wantonness  and  the  natural 
disposition  of  women,  which  is  for  the  most  part  flighty  and  ill- 
regulated. 

Leandra  withdrawn  from  sight,  Anselmo's  eyes  grew  blind,  or  at 
any  rate  found  nothing  to  look  at  that  gave  them  any  jjleasure,  and 
mine  were  in  darkness  without  a  ray  of  liglit  to  direct  them  to  any- 
thing enjoyable  while  Leandra  was  away.  Our  melancholy  grew 
gi'eater,  our  patience  grew  less ;  we  cursed  the  soldier's  tineiy  and 


432  DON    QUIXOTE. 

railed  at  the  carelessness  of  Leandra's  father.  At  last  Anselmo  and 
I  agreed  to  leave  the  village  and  come  to  this  valley  ;  and,  he  feeding 
a  great  flock  of  sheep  of  his  own,  and  I  a  large  herd  of  goats  of 
mine,  we  pass  our  life  among  the  trees,  giving  vent  to  om-  sorrows, 
too-ether  singing  the  fair  Leandra's  praises,  or  upbraiding  her,  or 
else  sio-hing  alone,  and  to  Heaven  pouring  forth  our  complaints  in 
solitude.  Following  our  example,  man}-  more  of  Leandra's  lovei's 
have  come  to  these  rude  mountains  and  adoj^ted  our  mode  of  life, 
and  they  are  so  numerous  that  one  would  fancy  the  place  had  been 
tuL-ned  into  tiie  pastoral  Arcadia,  so  full  it  is  of  shepherds  and  sheep- 
folds  ;  nor  is  there  a  spot  in  it  where  the  name  of  the  fair  Leandra  is 
not  heard.  Here  one  curses  her  and  calls  her  capricious,  fickle,  and 
immodest,  there  another  condemns  her  as  frail  and  frivolous ;  this 
pardons  and  absolves  her,  that  spurns  and  reviles  her;  one  extols  her 
beauty,  another  assails  her  character,  and  in  short,  all  abuse  her,  and 
all  adore  her,  and  to  such  a  pitch  has  this  general  infatuation  gone 
that  there  are  some  who  complain  of  her  scorn  without  ever  having 
exchanged  a  word  with  her,  and  even  some  that  bewail  and  mourn 
th6  ragnig  fever  of  jealousy,  for  which  she  never  gave  any  one  cause, 
for,  as  I  have  already  said,  her  misconduct  was  known  before  her 
jjassion.  Tliere  is  no  nook  among  the  rocks,  no  bi'ookside,  no  shade 
beneath  the  trees  that  is  not  haunted  by  some  shepherd  telling  his 
woes  to  the  breezes ;  wherever  there  is  an  echo  it  repeats  the  name 
of  Leandra;  the  mountains  ring  with  "  Leandra,"  "  Leandra"  mur- 
mur the  brooks,  and  Leandra  keeps  us  all  liewildered  and  bewitched, 
hoping  without  hope  and  fearing  without  knowing  Avhat  we  fear. 
Of  alf  this  silly  set  the  one  that  shows  the  least  and  also  the  most 
sense  is  my  rival  Anselmo,  for  having  so  many  other  things  to  com- 
plain of,  he  onlv  complains  of  separation,  and  to  the  accompaniment 
of  a  rebeck,  which  he  plays  admirably,  he  sings  his  complaints  in 
verses  that  show  liis  ingenuity.  1  follow  another  easier,  and  to 
my  mind  wiser  course,  and  that  is  to  rail  at  the  frivolity  of  women, 
at  their  inconstancy,  their  double  dealing,  their  broken  promises, 
their  unkept  pledges,  and  in  short  tlie  want  of  reflection  they  sliow 
in  fixing  their  aftections  and  inclinations.  This,  sirs,  was  the  reason 
of  worcfs  and  expressions  I  made  use  of  to  this  goat  when  I  came  up 
just  now^;  for  as  she  is  a  female  I  have  a  contempt  for  her,  though 
she  is  the  best  in  all  my  fold.  Tliis  is  the  story  I  promised  to  tell 
you,  and  if  I  have  been  tedious  in  telling  it,  I  will  not  be  slow  to 
serve  you ;  my  hut  is  close  by,  and  I  have  fresh  milk  and  dainty 
cheese  thei-c,  as  well  as  a  variety  of  toothsome  fruit,  no  less  pleasing 
to  the  eye  than  to  the  palate. 


CHAPTER    LIL  433 


CHAPTER  LII. 

OF  THE  QUARREL  THAT  DOX  QUIXOTE  HAD  WITH  THE  GOAT- 
HERD, TOGETHER  WITH  THE  RARE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE 
PENITENTS,  WHICH  WITH  AN  EXPENDITURE  OF  SWEAT  HE 
BROUGHT    TO    A    HAPPY    CONCLUSION. 

The  goatherd's  tale  gave  great  satisfaction  to  all  the  hearers, 
and  tlie  canon  especially  enjoyed  it,  for  he  had  remarked  with 
particular  attention  the  manner  in  which  it  had  Ijeen  told, 
which  was  as  unlike  the  manner  of  a  clownish  goatherd  as  it 
was  like  that  of  a  polished  city  wit ;  and  he  observed  that  the 
curate  had  been  cpute  right  in  saying  that  the  woods  bred  men 
of  learning.  They  all  offered  their  services  to  Eugenic,  but  he 
who  showed  himself  most  liberal  in  this  way  was  Don  Quixote, 
who  said  to  him,  "  Most  assuredly,  brother  goatherd,  if  I  found 
myself  in  a  position  to  attempt  any  adventure,  I  would,  this 
very  instant,  set  out  on  your  behalf,  and  would  rescue  Leandra 
from  that  convent  (where  no  doubt  she  is  kept  against  her  will), 
in  spite  of  the  abbess  and  all  who  might  try  to  prevent  me,  and 
would  place  her  in  your  hands  to  deal  with  her  according  to 
your  will  and  pleasure,  observing,  however,  the  laws  of  chivalry 
which  lay  down  that  no  violence  of  any  kind  is  to  be  offered  to 
any  damsel.  But  I  trust  in  God  our  Lord  that  the  might  of 
one  malignant  enchanter  may  not  prove  so  great  but  that  the 
power  of  another  better  disposed  may  prove  superior  to  it,  and 
then  I  promise  you  my  support  and  assistance,  as  I  am  bound 
to  do  by  my  profession,  which  is  none  other  than  to  give  aid 
to  the  weak  and  needy." 

The  goatherd  eyed  him,  and  noticing  Don  Quixote's  sorry 
appearance  and  looks,  he  was  filled  with  wonder  and  asked  the 
barber,  who  was  next  him,  "  Senor,  who  is  this  man  who 
makes  such  a  figure  and  talks  in  such  a  strain  ?  " 

"  Who  should  it  be,"  said  the  barber,  "  but  the  famous  Don 
Quixote  of  La  Mancha,  the  undoer  of  injustice,  the  righter  of 
wrongs,  the  protector  of  damsels,  the  terror  of  giants,  and  the 
winner  of  battles  ?  " 

"  That,"  said  the  goatherd,  *'  sounds  like  Avhat  one  reads  in 
the  books  of  the  knights-errant,  who  did  all  that  you  say  this 
man  does ;  though  it  is  my  belief  that  either  you  are  joking, 
or  else  this  gentleman  has  empty  lodgings  in  his  head." 

Vol.  I.  —  28 


434  DON    QUIXOTE. 

"Yon  are  a  great  scoundrel,"  said  Don  Quixote,  "and  it  is 
you  who  are  empty  and  a  fool.  I  am  fuller  than  ever  was  the 
whoreson  bitch  that  bore  yon ;  "  and  passing  from  words  to 
deeds,  he  caught  up  a  loaf  that  was  near  him  and  sent  it  full 
in  the  goatherd's  face,  with  such  force  that  he  flattened  his 
nose;  but  the  goatherd,  who  did  not  understand  jokes,  and 
found  himself  roughly  handled  in  such  good  earnest,  paying 
no  respect  to  carpet,  table-cloth,  or  diners,  sprang  upon  Don 
Quixote,  and  seizing  him  by  the  throat  Avith  both  hands  would 
no  doubt  have  throttled  him,  had  not  Sancho  Panza  that 
instant  come  to  the  rescue,  and  grasping  him  by  the  shoulders 
flung  him  doAvn  on  the  table,  smashing  plates,  breaking  glasses, 
and  upsetting  and  scattering  everything  on  it.  Don  Quixote, 
finding  hiinself  free,  strove  to  get  on  top  of  the  goatherd,  who, 
Avith  his  face  covered  Avith  blood,  and  soundly  kicked  by 
Sancho,  Avas  on  all  fours  feeling  about  for  one  of  the  table- 
knives  to  take  a  bloody  revenge  Avith.  The  canon  and  the 
curate,  hoAvever,  prevented  him,  but  the  barber  so  contrived  it 
that  the  goatherd  got  Don  Quixote  under,  and  rained  doAA^i  upon 
him  such  a  shoAver  of  fisticuffs  that  the  poor  knight's  face 
streamed  Avith  blood  as  freely  as  his  OAvn.  The  canon  and  the 
curate  Avere  bursting  Avith  laughter,  the  oflicers  Avere  capering 
Avith  delight,  and  both  the  one  and  the  other  hissed  them  on 
as  they  do  dogs  that  are  Avorrying  one  another  in  a  fight.' 
Sancho  alone  Avas  frantic,  for  he  could  not  free  himself  from 
the  grasp  of  one  of  the  canon's  servants,  Avho  kept  him  from 
going  to  his  master's  assistance. 

At  last,  Avhile  they  Avere  all,  Avith  the  exception  of  the  two 
bruisers  Avho  Avere  mauling  each  other,  in  high  glee  and  enjoy- 
ment, they  heard  a  trumpet  sound  a  note  so  doleful  that  it 
made  them  all  look  in  the  direction  Avhence  the  sound  seemed 
to  come.  But  the  one  that  Avas  most  excited  by  hearing  it  Avas 
Don  Quixote,  Avho,  though  sorely  against  his  Avill  he  Avas  under 
the  goatherd,  and  something  more  than  pretty  Avell  pummelled, 
said  to  him,  "  Brother  devil  (for  it  is  impossible  but  that  thou 
must  be  one  since  thou  hast  had  might  ami  sti-ength  enough  to 
overcome  mine),  I  ask  thee  to  agree  to  a  truce  for  but  one  hour, 
for  the  solemn  note  of  yonder  trumpet  that  falls  on  our  ears 
seems  to  me  to  summon   me   to    some  ucav  adventure."     The 

'  Hartzenbuscli,  who  will  neviT  ailniit  an  tTror  in  taste  or  judgment  in 
Cervantes,  explains  the  conduct  of  the  canon  and  curate  on  this  occasion 
by  pointing  out  that  it  was  after  dinner. 


CHAPTER    Lir.  435 

goatherd,  avIio  was  by  this  time  tired  of  pummelling  and  l)eing 
pummelled,  released  him  at  once,  and  Don  Quixote  rising  to 
his  feet  and  turning  his  eyes  to  the  quarter  where  the  sound 
had  been  heard,  suddenly  saw  coming  down  the  slope  of  a  hill 
several  men  clad  in  white  like  penitents. 

The  fact  was  that  the  clouds  had  that  year  withheld  their 
moisture  from  the  earth,  and  in  all  the  villages  of  the  district 
they  Avere  organizing  processions,  rogations,  and  penances,  im- 
ploring God  to  open  the  hands  of  his  mercy  and  send  them 
rain ;  and  to  this  end  the  people  of  a  village  that  was  hard  by 
were  going  in  procession  to  a  holy  hermitage  that  was  on  one 
side  of  that  valley.  Don  Quixote,  when  he  saw  the  strange 
garb  of  the  penitents,  without  reflecting  how  often  he  had  seen 
it  before,  took  it  into  his  head  that  this  was  a  case  of  adventure, 
and  that  it  fell  to  him  alone  as  a  knight-errant  to  engage  in  it ; 
and  he  was  all  the  more  confirmed  in  this  notion,  by  the  idea 
that  an  image  draped  in  black  they  had  with  them  Avas  some 
illustrious  lady  that  these  villains  and  discourteous  thieves  were 
carrying  off  by  force.  As  soon  as  this  occurred  to  him  he  ran 
with  all  speed  to  Rocinante  who  Avas  grazing  at  large,  and  tak- 
ing the  bridle  and  the  buckler  from  the  saddle-bow,  he  had 
him  bridled  in  an  instant,  and  calling  to  Sancho  for  his  SAVord 
he  mounted  Rocinante,  braced  his  buckler  on  his  arm,  and  in 
a  loud  voice  exclaimed  to  those  Avho  stood  by,  "  ]S"oav,,  noble 
company,  ye  shall  see  how  important  it  is  that  there  should  be 
knights  in  the  Avorld  professing  the  order  of  knight-errantry ; 
now,  I  say,  ye  shall  see,  by  the  deliverance  of  that  Avorthy  lady 
who  is  borne  captive  there,  Avhether  knights-errant  deserve  to 
be  held  in  estimation,"  and  so  saying  he  brought  his  legs  to 
bear  on  Rocinante  —  for  he  had  no  spurs  —  and  at  a  full  canter 
(for  in  all  this  veracious  history  Ave  never  read  of  llocinante 
fairly  galloping)  set  off  to  encounter  the  penitents,  thougli  the 
curate,  the  canon,  and  the  barber  ran  to  prevent  him.  ])ut  it 
Avas  out  of  their  poAver,  nor  did  he  even  stop  for  the  shouts  of 
Sancho  calling  after  him,  "  AVliere  are  you  going,  Seiior  Don 
Quixote  ?  What  devils  have  possessed  you  to  set  you  on  against 
our  Catholic  faith  ?  Plague  take  nie !  mind,  that  is  a  proces- 
sion of  penitents,  and  the  lady  they  are  carrying  on  that  stand 
there  is  the  blessed  image  of  the  immaculate  Virgin.  Take 
care  Avhat  you  are  doing,  senor,  for  this  time  it  may  be  safely 
said  you  don't  know  Avhat  you  are  about."  Sancho  labored  in 
vain,  for  his  master  Avas  so  bent  on  coming  to  quarters  with 


430  DON    QUIXOTE. 

these  sheeted  figures  and  releasing  the  lady  in  black  that  he 
did  not  hear  a  wurd  ;  and  even  had  he  heard,  he  woidd  not  have 
turned  bac!:  if  the  king  had  ordered  him.  He  came  up  with 
the  procession  and  reined  in  Eociuante,  who  was  already  anxious 
enough  to  slacken  speed  a  little,  and  in  a  hoarse,  excited  voice 
he  exclaimed,  ''  You  who  hide  your  faces,  perhaps  because  yoii 
are  not  good  subjects,  pay  attention  and  listen  to  what  I  am 
about  to  say  to  you."  The  first  to  halt  Avere  those  who  were 
carrying  the  image,  and  one  of  the  four  ecclesiastics  who  were 
chanting  the  Litany,  struck  by  the  strange  figure  of  Don  Qui- 
xote, the  leanness  of  Eocinante,  and  the  other  ludicrous  pecu- 
liarities he  observed,  said  in  reply  to  him,  •'  Brother,  if  you 
have  anything  to  say  to  us  say  it  quickly,  for  these  brethren 
are  whipping  themselves,  and  we  cannot  stop,  nor  is  it  reason- 
able Ave  should  stop  to  hear  anything,  unless  indeed  it  is  short 
enough  to  be  said  in  two  words." 

"  I  Avill  say  it  in  one,"  replied  Don  Quixote,  "  and  it  is  this ; 
that  at  once,  this  very  instant,  ye  release  that  fair  lady  whose 
tears  and  sad  aspect  shoAV  plainly  that  ye  are  carrying  her  off 
against  her  Avill,  and  that  ye  have  committed  some  scandalous 
outrage  against  her  ;  and  I,  Avho  Avas  l^orn  into  the  Avorld  to 
redress  all  such  like  Avrongs,  Avill  not  permit  you  to  advance 
another  step  initil  you  have  restored  to  her  the  liberty  she 
pines  for  and  deserves." 

From  these  Avords  all  the  hearers  concluded  that  he  must  be 
a  madman,  and  began  to  laugh  heartily,  and  their  laughter 
acted  like  gunpoAvder  on  Don  Quixote's  fury,  for  draAving  his 
sword  Avithout  another  Avord  lie  made  a  rush  at  the  stand. 
One  of  those  Avho  supported  it,  leaA'ing  the  burden  to  his 
comrades,  advanced  to  meet  him,  flourishing  a  forked  stick 
that  he  had  for  propping  up  the  stand  Avhen  resting,  and  Avith 
this  he  caught  a  mighty  cut  Don  Quixote  made  at  him  that 
severed  it  in  two ;  but  Avith  the  portion  that  remained  in  his 
hand  he  dealt  siu-h  a  tliAvack  on  the  shoulder  of  Don  Quixote's 
sword  arm  (which  the  buckler  could  not  protect  against  the 
clownish  assault)  that  poor  Don  Quixote  came  to  the  ground 
in  a  sad  plight. 

Sancho  Panza,  Avho  Avas  coming  on  close  behind  piiffing  and 
bloAving,  seeing  him  fall,  cried  out  to  his  assailant  not  to  strike 
him  again,  for  he  Avas  a  poor  enchanted  knight,  Avho  had  never 
harmed  any  one  all  the  days  of  his  life ;  but  Avliat  checked 
the  cloAvn  Avas,  not   Sancho's  shouting,  but    seeing  that  Don 


CIIAPTEU    LI  I.  437 

Quixote  did  not  stir  hand  or  foot;  and  so,  fancying  he  had 
killed  him,  he  hastily  hitched  up  his  tunic  under  his  girdle 
and  took  to  his  heels  across  the  country  like  a  deer. 

By  tins  time  all  Don  Quixote's  companions  had  come  up  to 
where  he  lay ;  but  the  processionists  seeing  them  come  run- 
ninsr,  and  with  them  the  officers  of  the  Brotherliood  with  their 
crossbows,  apprehended  mischief,  and  clustering  round  the 
image,  raised  their  hoods,  and  grasped  their  scourges,  as  the 
priests  did  their  tapers,  and  awaited  the  attack,  resolved  to 
defend  themselves  and  even  to  take  the  offensive  against  their 
assailants  if  they  could.  Fortune,  however,  arranged  the 
matter  better  than  they  expected,  for  all  Sancho  did  was  to 
fling  himself  on  his  master's  body,  raising  over  him  the  most 
doleful  and  laughable  lamentation  that  ever  was  heard,  for  he 
believed  he  was  dead.  The  curate  was  known  to  another 
curate  who  walked  in  the  procession,  and  their  recognition  of 
one  another  set  at  rest  the  apprehensions  of  both  parties ;  the 
iirst  then  told  the  other  in  two  words  who  Don  Quixote  was, 
and  he  and  the  whole  troop  of  penitents  went  to  see  if  the 
poor  gentleman  was  dead,  and  heard  Sancho  Panza  saying, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  '*  Oh  flower  of  chivalry,  that  with  one 
1)low  of  a  stick  hast  ended  the  course  of  thy  well-spent  life ! 
Oh  pride  of  thy  race,  honor  and  glory  of  all  La  Mancha,  nay, 
of  all  the  world,  that  for  want  of  thee  will  be  full  of  evil- 
doers, no  longer  in  fear  of  punishment  for  their  misdeeds ! 
Oh  thou,  generous  above  all  the  Alexanders,  since  for  only 
eight  months  of  service  thou  hast  given  me  the  best  island  the 
sea  girds  or  surrounds  !  ^  Humble  with  the  proud,  haughty 
with  the  humble,  encounterer  of  dangers,  endurer  of  outrages, 
enamoured  without  reason,  imitator  of  the  good,  scourge  of 
the  wicked,  enemy  of  the  mean,  in  short,  knight-errant,  which 
is  all  that  can  be  said ! " 

At  the  cries  and  moans  of  Sancho,  Don  Quixote  came  to  him- 
self, and  the  first  Avord  he  said  was,  "  He  who  lives  separated 
from  you,  sweetest  Dulcinea,  has  greater  miseries  to  endiire 
than  these.  Aid  me,  friend  Sancho,  to  mount  the  enchanted 
cart,  for  T  am  not  in  a  condition  to  press  the  saddle  of  Eoci- 
nante,  as  this  shoulder  is  all  knocked  to  pieces." 

"  That  I  will  do  with  all  my  heart,  senor,"  said  Sancho  ;  "  and 

^  It  is  commonly  said  that  Sancho,  though  he  would  have  understood 
what  "  isla  "  meant,  liad  no  conception  of  the  meaning  of  "insula,"  the 
antiquated  word  for  island  Don  Quixote  always  uses ;  but  it  appears  from 
this  that  lie  understood  perfectly  what  an  insula  is. 


438  DON    QUIXOTE. 

let  us  return  to  our  village  with  these  gentlemen,  who  seek  your 
good,  and  there  we  will  prepare  for  making  another  sally, 
which  may  turn  out  more  profitable  and  creditable  to  us." 

"  Thou  art  right,  Sancho,"  returned  Don  Quixote ;  "  it  will 
be  wise  to  let  the  malign  influence  of  the  stars  which  now  pre- 
vails pass  off." 

The  canon,  the  curate,  and  the  barber  told  him  he  would  act 
very  wisely  in  doing  as  he  said  ;  and  so,  highly  amused  at 
Sancho  Panza's  simplicities,  they  placed  Don  Quixote  in  the 
cart  as  before.  The  procession  once  more  formed  itself  in 
order  and  proceeded  on  its  road ;  the  goatherd  took  his  leave 
of  the  party ;  the  officers  of  the  Brotherhood  declined  to  go 
any  farther,  and  the  curate  paid  them  what  was  due  to  them ; 
the  canon  begged  the  curate  to  let  him  know  hoAV  Don  Quixote 
did,  whether  he  was  cured  of  his  madness  or  still  suffered  from 
it,  and  then  begged  leave  to  continue  his  journey  ;  in  short, 
they  all  separated  and  went  their  ways,  leaving  to  themselves 
the  curate  and  the  barber,  Don  Quixote,  Sancho  Panza,  and  the 
good  Rocinante,  who  regarded  everything  with  as  great  resig- 
nation as  his  mastei*.  The  carter  yoked  his  oxen  and  made 
Don  Quixote  comfortable  on  a  truss  of  hay,  and  at  his  usual 
deliberate  pace  took  the  road  the  curate  directed,  and  at  the 
end  of  six  days  they  reached  Don  Quixote's  village,  and  en- 
tered it  about  the  middle  of  the  day,  which  it  so  happened  was 
a  Sunday,  and  the  people  were  all  in  the  plaza,  through  which 
Don  Quixote's  cart  passed.  They  all  flocked  to  see  what  was 
in  the  cart,  and  when  they  recognized  their  townsman  they 
were  filled  Avith  amazement,  and  a  boy  ran  off  to  bring  the 
news  to  his  housekeeper  and  his  niece  that  their  master  and 
uncle  had  come  back  all  lean  and  yellow  and  stretched  on  a 
truss  of  hay  on  an  ox-cart.  It  was  piteous  to  hear  the  cries 
the  two  good  ladies  raised,  how  they  beat  their  breasts  and 
poured  out  fresh  maledictions  on  those  accursed  books  of  chiv- 
alry ;  all  which  was  renewed  when  they  saw  Don  Quixote  com- 
ing in  at  the  gate. 

At  the  news  of  Don  Quixote's  arrival  Sancho  Panza's  wife 
came  running,  for  she  by  this  time  knew  that  her  husband  had 
gone  away  with  him  as  his  squire,  and  on  seeing  Sancho,  the 
first  thing  she  asked  him  was  if  the  ass  was  well.  Sancho  re- 
plied that  he  was,  better  than  his  master  was. 

''  Thanks  be  to  God,"  said  she,  "  for  being  so  good  to  me ;  but 
now  tell  me,  my  frieud,  what  have  you  made  by  your  squirings  ? 


CHAPTER    HI.  439 

What  gown  have  you  brought  me  back  ?  AVliat  shoes  for  your 
chilclreu  ?  " 

"  I  bring  nothing  of  that  sort,  wife,"  said  Sancho  ;  "  though 
I  bring  other  things  of  more  consequence  and  value." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  that,"  returned  his  wife  ;  "  show  me  these 
things  of  more  value  and  consequence,  my  friend ;  for  I  want 
to  see  them  to  cheer  my  heart  that  has  been  so  sad  and  heavy 
all  these  ages  that  you  have  been  away." 

"■  I  will  show  them  to  you  at  home,  wife,"  said  Sancho ;  "  be 
content  for  the  present ;  for  if  it  please  God  that  we  should 
again  go  on  our  travels  in  search  of  adventures,  you  will  soon 
see  me  a  count,  or  governor  of  an  island,  and  that  not  one  of 
those  every-day  ones,  but  the  best  that  is  to  be  had." 

"  Heaven  grant  it,  husband,"  said  she,  "  for  indeed  we  have 
need  of  it.  But  tell  me,  what 's  this  about  islands,  for  I  don 't 
understand  it  ?  " 

"  Honey  is  not  for  the  mouth  of  the  ass,"  ^  returned  Sancho  ; 
"  all  in  good  time  thou  shalt  see,  wife  —  nay,  thou  wilt  be 
surprised  to  hear  thyself  called  'your  ladyship,'  by  all  thy 
vassals." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Sancho,  with  your  ladyships, 
islands,  and  vassals  ?  "  returned  Teresa  Panza  —  for  so  Sancho's 
wife  was  called,  though  they  were  not  relations,  for  in  La  AEan- 
cha  it  is  customary  for  wives  to  take  their  husl)ands'  surnames. 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  know  all  this,  Teresa,"  said  San- 
cho ;  "  it  is  enough  that  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  so  shut  your 
mouth.  But  I  may  tell  you  this  much  by  the  way,  that  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  more  delightful  than  to  be  a  person  of 
consideration,  squire  to  a  knight-errant,  and  a  seeker  of  advent- 
ures. To  be  sure  most  of  those  one  finds  do  not  end  as  pleas- 
antly as  one  could  wish,  for  out  of  a  hundred  that  one  meets 
with,  ninety-nine  will  turn  out  cross  and  contrary.  I  know  it 
by  experience,  for  out  of  some  I  came  blanketed,  and  out  of 
others  belabored.  Still,  for  all  that,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  be  on 
the  lookout  for  what  may  happen,  crossing  mountains,  search- 
ing woofls,  climbing  rocks,  visiting  castles,  putting  up  at  inns, 
all  at  free  quarters,  and  devil  take  the  maravedi  to  pay." 

While  this  conversation  passed  between  Sancho  Panza  and 
his  wife,  Do"!!  Quixote's  housekeeper  and  niece  took  him  in 
and  undressed  him  and  laid  him  in  his  old  bed.  He  eyed 
them  askance,  and  could  not  make  out  where  he  was.     The 

»  Prov.  138. 


440  DON    QUIXOTE. 

curate  charged  his  niece  to  be  very  careful  to  make  her  uncle 
comfortable  and  to  keep  a  Avatch  over  him  lest  he  should  make 
his  escape  from  them  again,  "telling  her  what  they  had  been 
obliged  to  do  to  bring  him  home.  On  this  the  pair  once  more 
lifted  up  their  voices  and  renewed  their  maledictions  upon  the 
books  of  chivalry,  and  implored  Heaven  to  plunge  the  authors 
of  such  lies  and  nonsense  into  the  midst  of  the  bottomless 
pit.  They  were,  in  short,  kej)t  in  anxiety  and  dread  lest  their 
uncle  and  master  should  give  them  the  slip  the  moment  he 
found  himself  somewhat  better,  and  as  they  feared  \o  it  fell 
out. 

But  the  author  of  this  history,  though  he  has  devoted 
research  and  industry  to  the  discovery  of  the  deeds  achieved 
by  Don  Quixote  in  his  third  sally,  has  been  unable  to  obtain 
any  information  respecting  them,  at  any  rate  derived  from 
authentic  documents ;  tradition  has  merely  preserved  in  the 
memory  of  La  Manclia  the  fact  that  Don  Quixote,  the  third 
time  he  sallied  forth  from  his  home,  betook  himself  to  Sara- 
gossa,  where  he  Avas  present  at  some  famous  jousts  Avhich 
came  off  in  that  city,  and  that  he  had  adventures  there  worthy 
of  his  valor  and  high  intelligence.  Of  his  end  and  death  he 
could  learn  no  particulars,  nor  would  he  have  ascertained  it  or 
known  of  it,  if  good  fortune  had  not  produced  an  old  physi- 
cian for  him  who  had  in  his  possession  a  leaden  box,  Avhich, 
according  to  his  account,  had  been  discovered  among  the 
crumbling  foundations  of  an  ancient  hermitage  that  was  being 
rebuilt ;  in  Avhich  box  Avere  foiuid  certain  parchment  manu- 
scripts in  Gothic  character,  but  in  Castilian  verse,  containing 
many  of  his  achievements,  and  setting  forth  the  beauty  of 
Dulcinea,  the  form  of  Eocinante,  the  fidelity  of  Sancho  Panza, 
and  tlie  burial  of  Don  Quixote  himself,  together  with  sundry 
epitaphs  and  eulogies  on  his  life  and  character ;  but  all  that 
could  be  read  and  deciphered  Avere  those  Avhich  the  trust- 
Avorthy  author  of  this  new  and  unparalleled  history  here 
presents.  And  the  said  author  asks  of  those  that  shall  read 
it  nothing  in  return  for  the  vast  toil  Avhich  it  has  cost  him  in 
examining  and  searching  the  Manchegan  ai-chives  in  order  to 
bring  it  to  light,  save  that  they  give  him  the  same  credit  that 
people  of  sense  ^  give  to  the  books  of  chiA'alry  that  perA^ade 

'  One  of  his  grieA'ances  against  tlie  books  of  chivalry  being  that  they 
led  astray  not  merely  the  silly,  thoughtless,  and  uncritical,  but  A'ast 
numbers  of  people  who  ought  to  know  better. 


CHAPTER    LI  I.  441 

the  world  and  are  so  popular  ;  for  with  this  he  Avili  consider 
himself  amply  paid  and  fully  satisfied,  and  will  be  encouraged 
to  seek  out  and  produce  other  histories,  if  not  as  truthful,  at 
least  equal  in  invention  and  not  less  entertaining.  The  first 
words  written  on  the  parchment  found  in  the  leaden  box  were 
these  : 

THE  ACADEMICIANS   OF  ARGAMASILLA,' 

A    YILLAfJE    OK    LA    MANCHA, 

ON    THE    LIFE  AND    4)EATH   OF    DON    QUIXOTE  OF 

LA   MANCHA, 

HOC    S  C I ;  I P  S  E  K  U  X  T . 
MOXICOXGO,    ACADEMICIAX    OF    AliCiAMASILLA,    OX    THE    ToMB 

OF  Dox  Quixote. 

EPITAPH. 

The  scatterbrain  that  gave  La  JMancha  more 
Rich  spoils  than  Jason's ;  who  a  })oint  so  keen 
Had  to  his  wit,  and  happier  far  had  been 

If  his  wit's  weathercock  a  blunter  l)ore; 

The  arm  renowned  far  as  Gaeta's  shore, 
Cathay,  and  all  tiie  lands  that  lie  between; 
The  muse  discreet  and  terrible  in  mien 

As  ever  wrote  on  brass  in  days  of  yore ; 

He  who  surpassed  the  Ainadises  all, 

And  Avho  as  naught  the  Galaors  accounted, 
Supported  by  his  love  and  gallantry  : 

Who  made  the  Belianises  sing  small, 

And  sought  renown  on  Rocinante  mounted ; 
Here,  underneath  tliis  cold  stone,  doth  he  lie. 

'  Whether  or  not  this  is  to  he  held  an  indication  of  some  grudge  on  the 
part  of  Cervantes  against  the  autliorities  of  the  town,  it  is,  at  any  rate, 
conclusive  that  Don  (Quixote's  village,  "  the  name  of  which  he  did  not  care 
to  call  to  mind,"  was  Argamasilla.  "Monicongo"  may  he  translated 
"  mannikin  ;  "  "  l^iniaguado  "  is  a  sort  of  parasite  hanging  ahout  the  house 
of  a  patron  for  such  scraps  as  he  can  pick  up;  "  Burlador  "  means  a 
joker,  and  "  Cachidiablo  "  a  hobgoblin.  Except,  perhaps,  in  the  sonnet 
on  Sancho  Panza,  there  is  not  much  drollery  or  humor  in  these  verses, 
but  it  would  not  be  fair  to  criticise  them  severely,  as  they  are  obviously 
nothing  more  than  a  mere  outljurstof  reckless  nonsense  to  finish  ot¥  with  ; 
a  sort  of  flourish  or  ruhrica  like  tliat  commonly  appended  to  a  Spanish 
signature. 


442  DON    QUIXOTE. 


Paniaguado,  Academician    of    Argamasilla,  in    Laudem 
dulcine.e  del  toboso. 

SONNET. 

She,  whose  full  features  may  be  here  descried, 

High-bosonied,  with  a  bearing  of  disdain, 

Is  Dulcinea,  she  for  whom  in  vain 
The  great  Don  Quixote  of  La  Mancha  sighed. 
For  her,  Toboso's  queen,  from  side  to  side 

He  traversed  the  grim  sierra,  the  champaign 

Of  Aranjuez,  and  JMontiel's  famous  plain : 
On  Rocinante  oft  a  weary  ride. 
Malignant  planets,  cruel  destiny. 

Pursued  them  both,  the  fair  IManohegan  dame, 
And  the  unconquered  star  of  chivalry. 

Nor  youth  nor  beauty  saved  her  from  the  claim 
Of  death  ;  he  paid  love's  bitter  penalty, 

And  left  the  marl)le  to  preserve  his  name. 

C'APKICIIOSO,    a    most    ACUTK  ACADEMICIAN  OF    AkcJAMASILLA, 

IN  Praise  ok  Rocinante,  Steed  of   Dox  Quixote  of 
La  jNIaxcha. 

■  sonnet. 

On  that  proud  throne  ^  of  diamantine  sheen. 

Which  the  blood-reeking  feet  of  Mars  degrade, 
The  mad  ]\[anchegan's  banner  now  hath  been 

By  him  in  all  its  bravery  displayed. 

There  hath  he  hung  his  arms  and  trenchant  blade 
AVherewith,  achieving  deeds  till  now  unseen, 

He  slays,  lays  low,  cleaves,  hews ;  but  art  hath  made 
A  novel  style  for  our  new  paladin. 
If  Amadis  be  the  proud  boast  of  Gaul, 

If  by  his  progeny  the  fame  of  Greece 

Through  all  the  regions  of  the  earth  be  spread, 

'  111  tlie  second  and  third  (.'ditions  irono  —  "tlirone"  —  was  changed 
into  ironco^  which  llartzenbusch  considers  a  blundering  aUeration.  I  am 
inclined  to  think,  however,  that  he  is  wrong,  and  that  what  Cervantes 
meant  was  not  a  diamond-studded  throne,  but  an  adamant  jiillar,  a  trophy 
in  fact.  But  it  is  no  great  matter :  the  sonnet  was  meant  for  nonsense, 
and  is  successful  either  wav. 


cuArri:!!   lit.  443 

Great  Quixote  crowned  in  grim  ]5elIona's  hall 
To-day  exalts  La  Manclia  over  these, 

And  above  Greece  or  Gaul  she  holds  her  head. 
Kor  ends  his  glory  here,  for  his  good  steed 
Doth  Brillador  and  15ayard  far  exceed ;  ^ 
As  mettled  steeds  compared  with  Rocinante, 
The  reputation  they  have  won  is  scanty. 

BuRLADOR,  Academician  of   Argamasilla,  on  Sancho 

Panza. 

SONNET. 

The  worthy  Sancho  Panza  here  you  see ; 

A  great  soul  once  was  in  that  body  small, 

Nor  was  there  s(|uire  upon  this  earthly  ball 
So  plain  and  simple,  or  of  guile  so  free. 
AVithiii  an  ace  of  being  Count  was  he, 

And  wonld  have  been  but  for  the  spite  and  gall 

Of  this  vile  age,  mean  and  illiberal, 
That  can  not  even  let  a  donkey  be. 
For  mounted  on  an  ass  (excuse  the  word), 

By  Eocinante's  side  this  gentle  squire 

Was  wont  his  wandering  master  to  attend. 
Delusive  hopes  that  lure  the  common  herd 

With  promises  of  ease,  the  heart's  desire, 

In  shadows,  dreams,  and  smoke  ye  always  end. 

Cachidiablo,  Academician  of  Argamasilla,  on  the 
Tomb  of  Don  Quixote. 

epitaph. 

The  knight  lies  here  below, 

Ill-errant  and  bruised  sore, 

AVhom  Rocinante  bore 
In  his  wanderings  to  and  fro. 

'  Brillador  was  Orlando's  horse;   Bayard,  Rinaldo's  : 

"  Quel  Brigliador  si  hello  e  si  gagliardo 
Che  non  ha  paragon,  fuorelie  Baiardo." 

Orlando  Furtoso-i  ix.  (!<). 


444  DUN    QUIXOTE. 

By  the  side  of  the  knight  is  laid 
Stolid  man  Sancho  too, 
Than  whom  a  squire  more  true 
Was  not  in  the  esquire  trade. 

TlQUITOC,     ACADEMICIAI^     OF     ArGAMASILLA,     ON     THE     TOMB 
OF    DULCINEA    DEL    TOBOSO. 

EPITAPH. 

Here  Dulcinea  lies. 

Plump  was  she  and  robust : 

Now  she  is  ashes  and  dust : 
The  end  of  all  flesh  that  dies. 
A  lad}-  of  high  degree, 

With  the  port  of  a  lofty  dame. 

And  the  great  Don  Quixote's  flame, 
And  the  pride  of  her  village  Avas  she. 

These  were  all  the  verses  that  could  Vte  deciphered ;  the  rest, 
the  writing  being  worm-eaten,  were  handed  over  to  one  of  the 
Academicians  to  make  out  their  meaning  conjecturally.  We 
have  been  informed  that  at  the  cost  of  many  sleepless  nights 
and  much  toil  he  has  succeeded,  and  that  he  means  to  publish 
them  in  hopes  of  Don  Quixote's  third  sally. 

"  Forse  altro  cantera  con  miglior  plettro."  ' 

'  Misquoted  from  Ariosto,  Orlando  Furioso,  xxx.  16  : 

"  Forse  altri  cantera  con  miglior  plettro." 

Cervantes,  it  will  be  seen,  leaves  it  very  uncertain  whether  he  means  to 
give  a  continuation  of  the  adventures  of  Don  Quixote  or  not,  and  here 
almost  seems  to  invite  some  other  historian  to  undertake  the  task. 


END    OF    VOL.    1. 


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